


The Lost and the Forgotten

by Salchat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Mystery, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24179860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat/pseuds/Salchat
Summary: A team disappears while on a mission to a sinister underground city, and John and his team are sent to investigate. How will they uncover the truth, amidst the shadows and deceit?
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn't what he had expected. An underground city, Major Jordan had reported, and John had pictured rolling metal blast doors, a vast, cavernous space and the rigid military control of the Genii. That, at least, might have felt familiar, and although he had never felt comfortable with the 'rigid control' aspect of any military force, it was something he could readily understand. So far, however, they had passed unchallenged, the locals apparently assuming that the situation of the Gate itself precluded the sudden arrival of a large invasion force; it was set at the end of a tunnel dug in solid rock, the walls only just wide enough for its installation, its orientation such that the event horizon had carved out a dent in the end wall. No room for darts, and little room for infantry, so that Ronon and Rodney had bumped into each other as they passed around the edge of the great circle, and had exchanged growls and snarls, which was at least partly their way of rebonding at the beginning of a mission.

At the end of the tunnel, ill-lit by a sparse sodium-orange glow, was no vista of buried grandeur, but simply an alley, running at right angles; metal underfoot, rock-cut entrances in the nearer side, the opposite wall a bare three yards distant, composed of mixed, patched materials, piled in a vertical, haphazard shantytown of random, organic chaos. There were no guards, no officials, not even a face at one of the many windows, or a movement on any precarious balcony. A warm wind blew, and brought with it the poison-rich scent of hydrocarbons and memories of subway stations. Water dripped everywhere; John realised that his hair was wet and moisture beaded and ran down the sleeves of his jacket.

"Oh, well, this is nice!"

"It doesn't have to be nice, McKay," John said, tension making his words short and clipped. "We're just here to find Major Jordan and his team."

"Oh, really?" Rodney's nerves found their usual outlet in sarcasm. "I wish I'd paid attention in the briefing now... Oh, wait, I did!"

Nobody responded, each knowing to allow Rodney his needed release.

"You getting anything on that?"

"No," said Rodney, using his sleeve to wipe waterdrops from the screen of his scanner. "As I said in the briefing, if you'd been listening, what with interference from the surrounding rock, and all this packed-in, let's call it 'infrastructure', you're unlikely to get a clear signal from a sub-q, if any, which, in fact has proven to be the case!"

"John." Teyla's face looked grey in the orange lighting. She nodded toward a doorway, deeply shaded, on the rock-cut side of the alley.

"Ronon, watch our six," John said. He and Teyla approached the doorway, Rodney trailing behind, the useless scanner shoved roughly away into a pocket. A large drip landed on John's head; he could see droplets running down the walls, and lintels were fringed with the beginnings of stalactites.

"Buy a hat, mister? Ma'am?" The voice came out of the shadows and John could faintly make out the man's silhouette, the streetlight eerily highlighting his eyes and a flash of metal in his mouth. "Buy a smoke?"

"We are not here to trade," said Teyla. She introduced herself and the team, but the man didn't reciprocate. "We are looking for some friends of ours."

"Friends, you say?" His voice was guarded. "You'll be needing hats. Run-off don't get no better than this and many-a-time she's a good bit worse." He picked up a hat from the stack that leant against the wall. "See? Keep you dry. Well, drier anyway."

"No, thank you. Have you seen strangers, dressed like us? Weapons like these?"

"Can I see that?" Rodney interrupted. He took the proffered hat. "What is this? Trilby? Fedora?" He looked at John.

John shrugged. "There were four of them. Came from the Gate, like us. Did you see them?"

Rodney put the hat on and looked around, as if he expected a mirror to appear.

"Not many come through the Gate," the man evaded. "It don't usually work. The Getters see to that."

Rodney adjusted the hat without the benefit of a mirror, pulling the brim down slightly over one eye.

"Getters?" asked John.

The man nodded, took something from his pocket and light flared briefly, illuminating deeply lined features and dark, bird-like eyes beneath ragged, jutting brows. The bowl of a long, narrow pipe glowed red several times and bitter smoke tingled in John's nostrils.

"Those that Get, from Above, mostly, 'n' sometimes through the Gate."

"These Getters, are they in authority here? Should we speak to them about our friends?" Teyla asked.

The man wheezed a creaky laugh. "Authority? There's a few might think they have some say and fewer still that actually do."

John was beginning to think the man's evasion deliberate and Teyla's sidelong glance showed her agreement.

"How much for this?" asked Rodney.

"What're you offering?"

A rip of velcro and Rodney drew out an energy bar from his tac vest. He held it out, but the man looked wary.

"What's that, then?"

"Food. An energy bar. Full of sugary goodness," Rodney encouraged.

The man leant forward slightly, his rickety chair creaking as his head darted from side to side, checking up and down the alley. His voice low, he said, "There any sun in it?"

"What?"

"Sun," he repeated, impatiently. "Stops your bones going soft!"

"Oh, vitamin D! Er..." Rodney angled the bar to catch the light. "Yes. This thing's fortified with everything but the kitchen sink."

"Give it to me!" A gnarled hand, palm uppermost, trembled in the slanting light, the arm remaining in shadow. Rodney warily passed over the bar and the hand hastily withdrew.

"We've got more of those, for the right information," said John. He began to open one of his pockets slowly, the tear of velcro loud in the silent alley.

"I saw them," the man said abruptly. "Came through the Gate. Wanted to know about trading. They were back, coupla times. I heard the Gate and they were talking through it, somehow."

"What did you tell them? About trading?" John asked. "Where'd they go?"

"Sent 'em to Zanta's. Told 'em to ask for Mened or Angaray of the Getters. Don't know if they'd trade, though."

John took an energy bar from his pocket; it was accepted, eagerly.

"What kind of place is Zanta's? Is it far?"

"Not far. People meet there; drink, eat, if they're not fussy, which none of us can afford to be. Just follow the alley," he pointed to his left. "Take the first turn, then down the stairs, then next left. You'll see the light from there. Blue light from the sign. If it ain't broke."

"Thank you," Teyla said.

"The name's Brant," he said, suddenly garrulous. "Brant the hat-seller, everyone knows me!"

"Thanks, Brant, see you around," said John, moving away.

"Sure you will, if you come back this way! I'm always here!"

The voice faded behind them as they passed along the narrow way, through dark pools of shadow where balconies nearly met overhead, and grey-orange patches lit by the occasional street lights.

Ronon's voice rumbled from behind John: "He's a spy."

"I think it's safe to say he knows more than he's telling," John said.

"He watches the Gate. There is no living to be made merely selling hats in such a deserted place," said Teyla.

"Who's paying him to watch?" Ronon said.

"The Getters?" John wondered. "Whoever they are. There must be other groups, gangs maybe. He saw Jordan checking in."

"I didn't like what he said about the Gate not usually working." Rodney adjusted his hat again. "There's nothing wrong with the Gate, so why wouldn't it?"

"Hmm... I don't like it either."

"Great hat, though. How does it look?"

John glanced at Rodney, who had the brim of the hat pulled low, his eyes gleaming beneath, in its shadow, his mouth a mysterious line.

"Looks good! Very Bogart! It'll cut down your field of view, though."

"Well, you can carry on getting wet and having a great view while I stay dry with style."

oOo

The argon blue light cut the night like a laser, and Rodney might have thought himself a moth drawn to a candle flame, but instead pondered on a society that had the wherewithal to manufacture vacuum-sealed, curlicued glass tubes and fill them with just a smidgen of an inert gas: in this unknown, unmapped world, 'here be scientists,' he thought.

A few steep steps down and a swing door brought them to a lobby; a hubbub of noise and bright light beckoned at the end of a short passage, but the way was barred by a hulking form of brick-wall solidity.

"Check your weapons, sirs, ma'am?"

"No, thanks, I think we'll hang on to them," John drawled, with a false smile.

Rodney felt a nervous laugh try to escape as the doorman stepped closer, his leather-clad shoulder topping John's by a good four inches.

"All weapons have to be checked. Please. Sir." The thug seemed to enjoy his sarcastic courtesy. Ronon moved up alongside John, but two more men appeared from nowhere to flank the team.

"We don't give up our weapons." Ronon glared at the man eye-to-eye.

"You give them up, or we ask you to leave," the doorman replied, with a suggestive crack of his knuckles.

John opened his mouth to speak, and Rodney had the distinct impression that his words would not be conciliatory.

"Is there a problem here, Dennet?"

"No, Ma'am."

The woman who sauntered toward them was tall; as tall as John, and richly clad in a deep blue dress which contrasted sharply with her pale skin, but brought out the matching colour of her eyes. Her hair, which she wore loose in cascading waves was, Rodney thought, an unlikely red-gold. Delicate she was not; the sleeveless gown revealed well-developed muscles in her shoulders and arms, and the aquiline cast of her countenance gave the impression of strength, of a woman used to getting what she wanted by force of character, keeping her not inconsiderable attractiveness in reserve.

"These people were just leaving," the doorman continued.

"But these aren't just 'people', Dennet. These are customers." Her voice was rich; calculatingly seductive. Her gaze travelled over the four team-mates, lingering most on the three men, but also regarding Teyla with frank appraisal. Rodney felt his face grow hot as she stared at him and he tried not to look away; one carefully-shaped eyebrow rose slightly in amusement. "I'm afraid I can't make any exceptions, however, even for such... unusual visitors."

"We don't want any trouble, Ma'am," said John. "Our weapons are just for self-defence."

"That's what they all say," she replied. "Zanta's the name," she continued, with a sultry curl of her lip. "Just like it says above the door."

"Lieutenant-Colonel John Sheppard," he replied, meeting her gaze. "Dr Rodney McKay, Teyla Emmagan, Ronon Dex. We're looking for some friends. Would you happen to know their whereabouts?"

She ignored his question.

"How about we just look after the big, powerful ones for you?" she asked suggestively, with a sidelong glance at Ronon. "Leave the concealed weaponry til later?" Her gaze flicked down John's body then up again. John swallowed, uncomfortably, and the tips of his ears turned red. Rodney stifled another nervous giggle and Teyla rolled her eyes.

"That is an acceptable solution," said Teyla, briskly, unclipping her P90. "Is it not, John?"

"Huh, yeah," he said, visibly pulling his mind back on track.

Teyla squared up to the doorman. "You must take great care of these," she said, with a narrow-eyed glare that suggested that damage to their weapons would result in matching injuries to his person.

Rodney unclipped his P90 and handed it over, copying John in unholstering his sidearm, but simply slipping it into a pocket. Zanta's hips swayed with deliberate provocation as she led them through to the main bar area. The light, the noise, the smoke and the heat were an assault on Rodney's senses after the silent dark of the network of alleys. Bright, white strip-lights hung on long leads from far above, giving the patrons no shady corners to hide in on the crowded floor, but leaving an upper-level shrouded in darkness and a rising pall of pipe-smoke. The bar ran along the wall to their left and stairs climbed to their right. All the tables were full, but one miraculously became free as Zanta steamed through the room, a magnificent figurehead, cleaving the waves ahead of them.

They sat and she joined them, a brief glance toward the bar bringing a waiter, a slew of tiny glasses and a drop of colourless liquid in each. He left the bottle and retreated discreetly. Zanta drained her glass. Rodney took a sip and tried to remain impassive as the raw alcohol burnt a hole in his tongue. He sneezed several times in succession. Zanta gave him an indulgent smile.

"Your friends were here," she said, without preamble. "Two men, two women. About this time, and then two of them again, late, last dark."

"Dark? It's dark all the time here!" said Rodney.

"Darks and lights, days and nights-that-were... the streetlights go out," she explained. "All apart from the main routes. Zanta's is always lit, though. Always a welcome here for a lonely traveller." She played with a chain around her neck, its pendant jewel shifting and sparkling in the valley between her breasts. Rodney pulled his eyes away, and looked around at the other tables, seeing pale skin and hat-brims pulled low.

"Did they speak to anyone?"

Zanta snapped her fingers and the waiter reappeared.

"The four strangers," Zanta said, curtly. "Who'd they talk to?"

"They asked for Mened and Angaray." The waiter played the rim of his circular tray through his hands. "Spoke to Mened. Went off with him. Then later, the black man and one of the women were back, asked me about rooms. I sent 'em to Tilda's place."

A nod dismissed him and Zanta said, "Mened's a good man and they'd be safe enough at Tilda's."

"They weren't," said Ronon bluntly, an edge of impatience in his voice. He pushed his chair back, rose and slouched away to loom over the bar. Zanta regarded Ronon's back view with a speculative tilt of her head.

John leant forward, his elbows on the table, his fingers curled around his glass.

"Listen, we're no threat to you, to this place. Major Jordan and his team were here to establish trade links, see if you'd be useful allies against the Wraith. But if they don't show up... We'd be forced to take some kind of action."

"That sounds like a threat to me," she said.

John drained his glass and said nothing.

Zanta dropped her mocking expression and her voice became crisp and direct. "Mened's not been here since, nor Angaray, nor any of the Getters. And you came through the Gate, which means it's still active." She poured herself another shot, but didn't drink it straight away. "That's not normal. We don't live down here because we like the dark; we call ourselves the Forgotten, the remnants of Pereyne-that-was, and forgotten remnants are what we'd like to stay. The Gate shouldn't have been active long enough for your team to come through; not them, nor you, nor anyone that's not one of us." She threw back her glass, downing the drink in one.

"We just wish to find our friends," said Teyla, earnestly, "and then we need never come here again. We will keep your secret."

"Maybe you will," said Zanta. She rose and stood, one hand resting on the back of her chair, the light glinting on the copper lights in her hair. "I'll do what I can."

"How do we get to this... Tilda's was it?" John asked.

"I'll have one of the boys show you," she said, over her shoulder as she retreated through the tightly packed tables, bestowing a smile here, a roguish wink there, spending her allure in small change to keep her clientele happy.

John blew out a long breath and ran his hands through his damp hair.

"An interesting woman," Teyla commented neutrally. "The price of her dress alone could clothe the whole room."

"Really?" asked Rodney.

Teyla nodded. "Few societies have the resources to produce such fabric, and it commands a great price. My people rarely traded for such."

"Wonder what this place turns over?" said John.

"Not enough!" Rodney discreetly viewed the surrounding customers, their shabby clothes, the careful guarding of their drinks. "Zanta has some wealthy connections," he speculated.

"Or some criminal ones," John said. "Or both."

oOo

There was always one, thought Ronon. In any crowded bar on any planet, there was the busybody, the know-it-all, the disempowered drinker, ready and eager to raise their status by playing guru to the new guy; such people could be useful, their information often accurate, their irritating manner a given. Ronon, who knew what it was to be lonely, had a high tolerance for irritation in such cases, and, in this instance, a pressing need for information.

He spoke to the barman, asking about the various bottles and casks, selecting a light ale, making his newcomer status obvious, although he thought his bronze skin tone would give that away anyway, as he looked around at all the pallid faces of those who never saw the sun. As expected, a presence sidled up, and a voice spoke at his elbow.

"You're new, arncha? Yeah?"

"Sure," replied Ronon, staring at his glass impassively.

"You're not from Below, nor from out by the Filters, no?" The man spoke in a high-pitched, furtive rapid-fire, eyes darting to Ronon's face and away to either side. "You'n' your friends? You off-worlders?"

"Sure."

"I knew you were, see, I can tell." He drew closer, turning his body to face Ronon, the sour tang of old sweat and mildew rising from his clothes. "You're lucky! Lucky I'm here today!"

Ronon grunted non-commitally and sipped his drink, which was bland, with a slight tinge of ammonia.

"I coulda been down round the Filters, or out Ventwards on business, see? A businessman, that's me!"

Ronon doubted this assertion, but remained silent. He glanced sideways at the pale, unshaven face and lank hair; either damp or greasy, Ronan couldn't tell. The man was small and had an underfed look, his eyes too large in his face, his lips standing out in a loose, red line. His gaze lingered on Ronon's drink and his tongue flickered over his lips. Ronan caught the barman's eye and jerked his head at his companion. The barman drew another glass of the light ale.

"That's... that's real friendly of you," stammered the man, reaching out a wary hand as if afraid the drink would be snatched away. "The name's Friegar. I'm always around. Except when I'm away. On business."

"Ronon," he offered. And then, "You said about Filters and Ventwards. What're they?"

Friegar, delighted to be asked, sat up straight on his stool and crossed his arms.

"Best way of 'splaining that is to give you a rundown of the clans," he nodded his head in self-affirmation, held out one hand and began counting off on his fingers. "You've got the Getters, who control the Gate and trade-off world sometimes, but mostly they get stuff from Above; they know the secret ways, see?"

Ronon nodded.

"Then there's the Venters, that keep the air flowing through, maintain the fans and such. Make sure hot air escapes so that it just looks natural-like from Up There." He took a drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "The Miners, that's obvious, they keep us in coal; the Fishers, they work the ocean filters and get what the Growers need from the sea. Then the Growers, they grow food down in the Labs." He paused, thoughtfully. "Meant to be different flavours, but it's kinda all the same. Then there's the Makers who, well that's obvious too, isn't it? They make what they can out of what the Getters sell'em."

Friegar's gestures had become more expansive as he warmed to his subject and he held his drink in one hand and attempted to sketch in the air a layout of the underground world with the other. A party of men passed close to the bar; miners, Ronon thought, by the dirt-stained clothes, and the skin darkened by ingrained coal-dust. Friegar flung out his hand to show the distance to the main vent, and Ronon lurched forward to grasp his wrist, with the unfortunate consequence of stopping Friegar's hand, but not the contents of his glass.

The inundated miner stopped, blinked, took a deliberate breath and then slowly turned to face Friegar and Ronon. The ale had created a pattern of splashes in the black grit on the man's face, and streaks had already run down his cheeks in mockery of the tears that he would decidedly not shed were violence to be, as he considered it, necessary. Ronon took his hand away from Friegar's wrist and lowered it, his palm flattened in what he fully recognised to be futile pacification.

The man's eyes flickered over Friegar, dismissing him as an unworthy opponent, and settled on Ronon. Ronon's hand strayed to his empty holster and then slipped inside his coat to find a familiar hilt, and he was aware of a sudden stillness, spreading like a ripple outward through the room. Behind the miners, chairs scraped as John and Teyla rose to their feet. The miner looked pointedly at Ronon's hand, the flat, grey gleam of the knife emerging from between the folds of leather. A grimy eyebrow made its way upward to hide under the hard hat that looked welded to his head.

"You ain't gonna draw that there blade, off-worlder."

It was a statement, rather than a question, and one, moreover, that Ronon knew to be correct. If he drew a knife, he paved the way for all the other hidden blades in the room and that path led onward further to the concealed firearms and the carnage that would result from their use in a small, crowded space. The knife slipped easily back into its sheath and Ronon's hand withdrew. He glanced at the offended miner's companions; a glimpse of white teeth, a readying shake of broad shoulders told him all he needed to know. These men hadn't come to Zanta's for the ale, and, feeling the crackle of anticipation running around the room, he realised that the same could be said of most, if not all of the occupants.

He met the miner's still-raised eyebrow with one of his own.

"Are we talkin' or are we fightin'?"


	2. Chapter 2

Like a stalked animal poised to run, a nocked arrow drawn back and ready to fly, the room froze, and Teyla could feel the cusp approaching; the brink, beyond which lay chaos.

John spoke.

"Hey, guys, maybe we can..."

A fist impacting his jaw effectively halted this attempt at diplomacy and the predicted chaos erupted. Teyla pulled Rodney down and, ignoring his protests, shoved him under the table. Feeling movement behind her, she smoothly grasped the back of her chair and brought it swinging round in an upward, curving arc, to smash against the generous jawline of the woman that had picked Teyla as her target. Another swing floored the woman and left the chair a loose collection of pieces. Teyla broke off two legs and scanned the room; Ronon was holding his own against three miners, his back to the bar, but John was surrounded and looked like he was in trouble. Teyla, small, female, and therefore often underestimated, used her advantage to carve a path through the melee, ducked under John's savagely wielded weapon of choice, a table leg, caught a brief glance of his lopsided grin and took up position back-to-back with her team leader. Her thoughts calmed, her awareness focussed on the one hundred and eighty degrees that were hers to defend, and her world narrowed to this one place and time, so that parries and thrusts, kicks and jabs were made, not with anger or desperation, but with meditative accuracy and a flow of strength and energy that felt as if they were drawn from the natural forces that moved through all things.

A fist came from the right, a sweeping kick from the left, a body barrelled powerfully from straight ahead; without thinking, Teyla reacted. One stick cracked on a wrist bone and she leapt, a foot extended, its impact delivered with precision to a solar plexus, then let her momentum carry her round to give a one-two of sharp hits to a skull. At Teyla's back, swift movements of air, grunts and thuds, told of John's fight, but she didn't let it distract her, continuing to deal out discrete packets of pain to her opponents, her blows carefully judged, to hurt when she could have maimed, to stun where she could have killed.

The attacks faltered; an efficient kick dampened one man's ardour for the fight, a smash with both chair legs ended another's hopes, then it was done. Teyla became aware of her heaving breaths, her sweat-dampened hair, the ache in her arms and legs from the jarring impacts, and the heat of John's body behind her. She turned. He, too, was breathing hard, the table leg dangling limply from one hand. His jaw was beginning to swell on one side, his nose was dripping blood, and his eyes were slightly unfocussed. As she watched, he allowed the table leg to drop to the floor with a clatter, and one hand felt around his ribs, as if checking everything was still where it should be. He started to speak, spat out some blood and then tried again.

"Thanks for the back-up. You okay?"

"I am unhurt," Teyla said, dropping her chair legs on the floor and handing him a handkerchief. John mopped at the blood running down his chin and then held the handkerchief to his nose. Groans sounded from around the room, figures limped here and there, some supporting others, some heading for the exit, many to the bar or righting tables and chairs to carry on with their evening. Voices were raised in laughter, and John and Teyla turned in time to catch Ronon and the original, offended miner, sitting on two of the few remaining intact bar stools, raising glasses to each other and downing them thirstily. Ale overflowed the edge of Ronon's glass and ran down his chin and throat to blend with his sweat and the blood that had dripped from a cut on his eyebrow.

Teyla narrowed her eyes, resolving to impart the complete and unabridged contents of her mind to both men, with a particular focus on the foolishness of those who considered gratuitous violence to be an acceptable form of recreational activity.

Then John said, "Where's McKay?"

oOo

Rodney had felt very foolish and rather cowardly, crouching under the table, while around him the entire bar transformed into some kind of Pegasus-style Fight Club. He knew he wasn't a coward and could have submitted written evidence of his bravery on numerous occasions, signed by several reliable witnesses. Hand-to-hand fighting, however, just wasn't his thing, and he wondered, briefly, if he should stand up and fire his Beretta in the air, thereby bringing the entire room to their senses. He came to his own senses, luckily, before enacting this rather heroic plan, realising that, instead of silence, shame-faced looks and muttered apologies from the crowd, more than likely they'd simply return fire and his heroism would be of the sadly perforated, ultimately fatal kind.

He was saved from his ignominious crouch by a hand, grasping his wrist and tugging, and he found himself looking into the laughing blue eyes of his hostess. She tugged harder.

"Dr McKay! Come with me!"

Neither Zanta's words nor her tugging had nearly as much effect on Rodney as the expanse of decolletage revealed to his widening eyes as she bent to look beneath the table, so that he felt he could claim legitimately that he had been hypnotised and had no choice in the matter. He found himself being led through the chaos, the melee parting before Zanta like the Red Sea before Moses. He followed her up the stairs and along a walkway and, below him, saw John and Teyla fighting back-to-back and Ronon launching himself off the bar, before he was pushed into a dark room.

A key clicked in a lock, a bolt slid; he turned to see Zanta, the blue light from the window glinting off her eyes and the jewel she wore on its chain. He caught a glitter of white teeth as she smiled. Rodney shuffled nervously, his heart pounding, sweat trickling down the centre of his back.

"Just a precaution," she said. "When things get a little lively, I lock my door, leave them to it... and add a surcharge to the drinks tariff to cover the damage."

"Very practical," he said, backing away slightly as she advanced toward him. She came closer until he felt something solid at the back of his thighs, but Zanta merely reached around him to turn on a desk lamp, flooding the room with a soft, yellow glow. She smiled again, her face close to his, and then moved away, to open a cabinet set against one wall.

"Drink?" she asked, and, without waiting for his answer, poured him a large measure of a peach-coloured liquid. "Sit," she directed, gesturing toward a seating area where two small couches faced each other across a low table. Zanta set the drinks down. Rodney sat. She sat next to him, the warmth of her velvet-clad thigh pressing against his. She picked up her drink and sipped it slowly, watching him, the gentle yellow light highlighting the curve of one bare shoulder and glimmering through the fall of her hair.

"Dr McKay..." she began, her voice low and soft.

"I'm not a medical doctor!" he burst out, keen to suppress any intimate details she might decide to share. "Ph-physics! M-mechanical engineering!" He huffed a nervous laugh.

"A man of science," she purred, putting down her glass and trailing her fingertips up and down his leg. "I like a man who knows his way around ... an equation." She leant closer, so that the pendant dangled tantalisingly between them. "Hot in here, isn't it?" she said, unzipping his tac vest and pushing it off over his shoulders.

"Oh! Um, I don't think..."

"Very hot," she continued, pulling down the zipper on his jacket.

"You see, Dr McKay... Rodney... a lot of people, they look at me and they'd pair me up with your big, strong wildman or your lean and hungry leader..."

"I d-don't think he is that hungry! That's why he's lean!"

"But they'd be wrong about that."

She gave his t-shirt a sharp upward tug so that it came untucked from his pants and then slid her hand underneath the fabric to rest it warmly on his stomach. Rodney thought hard about the theory behind Asgard beaming technology.

"What I like in a man is a certain, how shall I say it? A certain solidity." Her hand slid slowly higher, moving back and forth, exploring, and he forced his mind to consider the recycling of waste water on intergalactic starships. "A certain vulnerability... and... eyes the colour of unknown skies." She leant forward and her warm breath caressed his cheek. Rodney pressed himself back into the corner of the couch, but her lips pursued him and met with his in a demanding, breath-stealing kiss. Rodney knew several impulses at once: to push Zanta away, which seemed rude and also he thought she'd probably be able to subdue him quite easily; to dive over the back of the couch, which, again, would be likely to result in forcible restraint; and, finally, to respond in kind. After all, she was a woman, he was (apparently) a desirable man; why not? He let his mouth yield to hers and was just (with amazement at his daring) raising a tentative hand to touch whatever might be within reach (he wasn't fussy), when there was a pounding at the door.

"McKay! You in there?" John.

Zanta pulled back.

"Are you in there?" she asked, with a gently mocking smile.

"Yes," he croaked, huskily. Then louder, "Yes! It's... I'm... I'm okay!"

"Open up, then!"

"I'd better let your friends in before they break down the door," Zanta said, not moving, her face still close to his. Rodney's lips quirked in a self-deprecating grimace.

"Rodney?" Teyla's voice.

Zanta rose and regarded him, her hands on her hips.

"What do I have to do to assault your virtue?" she asked. "Apply ten darks in advance? Submit the correct forms in triplicate?"

"Something like that," he squeaked.

oOo

John followed the hulking form of the doorman, Dennet, through the dripping streets. His hair was wet again and moisture ran down his neck beneath his collar. He wondered if he should have traded for a hat after all, although the cold water was at least soothing on his throbbing nose and aching jaw. He caught Rodney giving him a sidelong look.

"You should see the other guy," he said, then corrected himself. "Guys. And women. Some really big, strong women. You know, I don't think I'd survive another evening's entertainment in that place."

"Good fight. Made some friends."

"I do not see why you have to make friends with your fists, Ronon."

John looked at Rodney and mouthed, "Still pissed!" He could almost feel the waves of Teyla's disapproval and glanced over his shoulder to see Ronon trying to repress a smirk beneath her piercing glare. Dennet led them up a flight of rusty stairs and round a corner into another narrow passage between overhanging buildings. John wondered how big the underground city was and thought about Ronon's intel, about the clans and how the place worked. He hoped they'd find some solid leads on the missing team soon.

"Okay, sitrep," he said, as he walked. "We know Jordan's team met their two-hour check-in. And then their four-hour, when they'd made contact..."

"With the Getters," said Rodney.

"Jordan just said possible trade contacts. Anyway, he said the city's cycle was coming round to night, so they'd decided to stay over and said they'd check-in in what passes for the morning round here."

"But they didn't."

"No. Four hours later, which'd be the middle of the night here, the Gate activates, there's a garbled message, which cuts out, then nothing."

"The hat guy saw them checking in."

"But did he see what happened at their last dial-up?"

"Oh, yes, 'I saw your team set upon and murdered!' He's not likely to tell us, is he?"

John frowned.

"What?"

"We're gonna find them, McKay," said John. "Alive."

"I hope so too, but I just think that hat and smoke man..."

"Brant," said Teyla.

"Brant," continued Rodney, "isn't likely to tell us if he witnessed any 'foul play'."

"He might for the right incentive," said Ronon.

"Always with the violence, Conan!"

"I was thinking power bars."

"Oh. Yes. Well, anyways, to continue the summary of our findings..."

John picked up Rodney's sentence. "We can place them at Zanta's early evening and then Major Jordan and either Captain Franks or Sergeant Bell at Zanta's again, late."

"An exact time would be good," said Rodney. "And there must be more locals who noticed them, especially Jordan. He'd stick out like a sore thumb in this sea of troglodyte grey."

"I think that might be racist, McKay."

"No, it's not! They're cave-dwellers, so the term troglodyte applies, and they have an unhealthy pallor brought on by lack of sunlight, therefore grey is accurate!"

"Oh, I think Zanta's skin is more a kind of peaches 'n' cream," said John, mischievously. "But you'd know more about that than me."

Rodney puffed out his chest and his walk took on a suggestion of a swagger.

"Can I help it if Zanta's a discerning female who appreciates the scientific mind?"

"Yeah, cos it was your erudite conversation she was after," said John. "From the progress she'd made, I'd say she expected to find a few hypotheses in your..."

"Yes, well, never mind that! We should be focussing on our search. Dr Griffin is a close and valued colleague of mine!"

John snorted. "You mean you wrote him up as 'not totally useless' in the last round of appraisals? Anyway, Jordan's a good man and Franks and Bell are no rookies. We'll find them."

"Good fighters, Beans and Taco," contributed Ronon.

"What? Who?"

"Captain Helen Franks, therefore, 'Beans'," explained John, "and Sergeant Erin Bell, so... 'Taco'."

Rodney was silent for a few strides and John could hear his mind working.

"Have you ever had a...?"

"Don't go there, McKay," John cut him off, with finality.

oOo

With a gesture and a grunt, Dennet indicated a grimy frontage and then, duty discharged to his satisfaction, sloped away, muttering to himself. Tilda's, made of bolted together sheets of metal, adorned with peeling patches of green paint, extended upward for at least five storeys and then, faint and far above, Ronon thought he could see a network of girders, presumably supporting another level in this underground world. He could see no sign above the door and wondered if Dennet had led them deep into the maze of alleys and left them to their fate. But no, in the small, filthy front window was a sign that read, simply 'rooms'; and a badly-painted addendum, which read 'no miners'. This rule had been compromised, Ronon knew, as his new friend Herrick had said he was staying at Tilda's, together with his buddies, all of them on a few days' leave; perhaps Tilda was desperate enough to risk the effects of coal dust on her sheets and furnishings.

Ronon hovered on the threshold as the other three went in, and was vaguely aware of Teyla's mellow 'first contact' tones and a quavering response. A shadow shifted at the far end of the alley and his instincts were confirmed; they had been followed. Possibly the slippery Friegar, who had distinguished himself only by the subtlety of his disappearance as soon as the fighting had started.

He turned away from the street at the clumping of boots on uneven wooden stairs, and followed his team. The rooms were on the fourth floor; two, connected, with a large bed in each. Ronon wondered who would've shared with who. Neither of the beds seemed to have been slept in.

"Booked them out for five darks, all paid up." Tilda, a small, wizened form wreathed in a cobweb-drapery of shawls, studied the team with a myopic gaze. "Bathroom's down the hall. Four darks left, all paid for, if you want 'em."

John strode to the window and looked out. Rodney started opening drawers.

"It's lights out soon, all apart from the goldways, 'n' you don't want to be wand'ring round out there in the full dark."

 _She seems keen for us to stay_ , thought Ronon. _Why?_

"Goldways?" queried John.

"The main routes, where the lights stay on. All the rest go full dark, so's you can't see your feet to fall."

Ronon tried to work out this expression and decided, like many sayings, it didn't really make sense.

"Sheppard!" Rodney was standing in front of an open cupboard. "Their packs are here. All four of them!"

There was a sudden crackle of static in Ronon's ear and John took out his radio handset and began adjusting the settings.

"Atlantis, this is Sheppard," he said, then waited. "Atlantis?"

Another crackle of static and then nothing.

"There's too much interference," Rodney said, squatting by one of the packs. "You've got solid rock almost completely surrounding the Gate, then a rat's nest of junk, between here and there. No offence," he said to Tilda. "I mean, I'm sure you do what you can with very limited means down here, and I wouldn't want to imply..."

"McKay!" John cut him off. "I guess that explains why Jordan went back to the Gate to check in." He ran his hand through his hair, brows furrowed, lower lip held between his teeth. "What've you got there, Rodney? Any weapons?"

"No, just the basic three-day mission standard packs."

"They booked for five darks," Tilda said, helpfully.

"Shall we return to the Gate to check in, John?" Teyla asked.

"I'll go back," said John. "Chewie, you're with me. Teyla, you'n McKay search the rooms, check the packs, see if there's anything that'll give us a lead on the team."

"Lights go out any minute," Tilda said. "You boys'll surely find trouble if you set out now."

"We are trouble," Ronon said and John's lips twitched slightly.

"We'll take the rooms, thank you, Ma'am. And we'll stick to the goldways, like you say."

"Won't be able to, not all the way to the Gate." The quavering voice faded as Tilda shuffled out and Ronon thought perhaps she was just an old lady, concerned for her guests.

oOo

"Sorry, John, you want what?" Standing right next to the Gate, Elizabeth's voice came through loud and clear.

"Vitamin D tablets. People here never see the sun. Seems like vitamin D would be a good thing for... incentives."

"You mean bribes?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"I'll ask Carson and get back to you. Anything else?"

"That's all for now."

"Alright, wait by the Gate and I'll see what I can do. Atlantis out."

The event horizon disappeared with a shimmer and John followed the orange glow to the end of the tunnel and Ronon's silhouette.

"Anything out there?"

"The old guy stuck his head out when you dialled up. Nothing else."

"Hmm... I think I'll have another word with Brant." John approached the man's alcove, and wondered whether he actually lived there.

"You ready to buy a hat yet, Mister? Looking pretty wet there!"

John was tempted, but shook his head.

"You said Major Jordan came back here and spoke through the Gate. D'you remember how many times he came back? Who was with him?"

"I might." The old man sucked on his pipe and a thin tendril of smoke drifted out into the alley.

John took a power bar from his tac vest, thinking he should have asked Elizabeth for more of those too. Brant accepted it, eagerly.

"First time it was all of them came back, then a while later, just the leader and one other."

"Man or woman?"

"Woman."

"Did you speak to them?"

Brant shook his head. "Heard the Gate go, then voices, then they headed off that way." He pointed down the alley in the opposite direction to Zanta's.

"Where would that take them?"

"Most anywhere, if you know the way."

"Do the Getters have a place that way?"

"Sure, you can get to their clan house that way, but there's Maker places down there too and ways down and up to other clans. Couldn't say, for sure."

"And later, middle of the night?"

"Most folks are sleepin' in the middle dark," said Brant.

"Were you?"

"Maybe."

"If you saw anything..."

"I've got nothing to tell about that," the old man said, impatiently. A stained finger crept out into the light and wagged tremulously. "But if you're thinking of asking questions at the Getter house, you'd be as well asking this wall!"

"Why's that?"

Brant leant forward, so that the orange light just touched the tips of his eyebrows and nose. "There's trouble! Clan leader, Galta Kethron... he's missing. And his wife and son. And a couple others, from what I heard tell."

"Since when?"

"Since round about the time your folks were last seen."

John eased his fingers, that had suddenly gripped his P90 more tightly. Locals missing as well as Jordan and his team; the information had to be significant. John itched for action and was tempted to tackle the Getter Clan House immediately, but common sense prevailed. They'd go as soon as the lights went up.

The Gate activated and John left Brant to his smouldering pipe.

oOo

"They should be back by now."

"We do not know how long it would take to walk to the Gate from here," said Teyla calmly, from beneath the bed. "I see no reason to worry unduly."

"I'm not worrying unduly, I'm worrying a perfectly acceptable amount," Rodney replied. "Look, there's nothing here and I'm hungry; d'you think Whistler's mother might have something to eat?"

Teyla ignored what she assumed to be an Earth cultural reference and squirmed toward the head of the bed, trying to avoid the metal springs that would catch on her hair. She reached out to grasp a small scrap of something, barely visible against the bare floorboards. "There is something here!"

"Well of course there is! I should think the cleaning routine is sketchy, at best!"

Teyla's fingers closed around the scrap and she wriggled out from beneath the bed and stood up, dusting herself down.

"What've you got? A matchbook from the local speakeasy?"

"A scrap of some kind of paper." Teyla held her find in the meagre light of the bedside lamp. It was just a torn-off strip, onto which had been drawn some very precise parallel lines.

"Looks like nothing," said Rodney, dismissively.

"The paper reminds me of the pictures that the Genii circulated."

"Genii?"

"I said that it reminds me, Rodney, not that it is." She slipped the clue into a pocket. "I will show it to Tilda. Perhaps she will recognise where it might come from."

"Probably someone rolling joints," said Rodney. "But let's see if she's offering anything remotely edible! Come on, Velma!"

Teyla rolled her eyes, wondering whether she should begin lacing her conversation with Athosian cultural references, so that Rodney might realise how mystifying it was. She could even incite Ronon to introduce Satedan slang to his speech. But no, Rodney wouldn't notice, and John would delight in Ronon's no doubt dubious offerings, and probably appropriate the worst of them for use when insulting Rodney. She was reminded of an Athosian saying, 'A small knife is enough for young hunters.'

Rodney clumped eagerly down the staircase ahead of her, following the scent trail of something else which, Teyla believed, may turn out to be a dubious offering, as far as Rodney was concerned. She herself was happy to eat virtually anything with nutritional value, and she doubted whether food of a palatable nature could be produced in an entirely subterranean environment.

Rodney hung over the greasy-surfaced counter at the foot of the stairs and called out.

"Halloo, service, please!"

"Rodney!"

"What?"

"Tilda is old and probably has to manage alone! And it is late!"

"And I'm on the verge of hypoglycaemia!"

"Can I help you?"

The old lady emerged from a back room, together with a strong waft of the unappetising cooking smell.

"Food!"

"Rodney!"

"I mean, please! You do serve food, right?"

Tilda looked blankly astonished, even her drooping shawls reflecting her bewilderment.

"What Dr McKay means to say, is, we would very much appreciate an evening meal, if it is not too much trouble," interpreted Teyla.

"Oh, well, it's late..." Teyla heard a suppressed whimper coming from Rodney's direction. "But there's the stew I was making for tomorrow. It's about ready."

"Excellent!" Rodney rubbed his hands together. "Which way to the dining room?"

Tilda's blank look returned.

"Is it for two? Or four?" she asked Teyla.

"Four, please."

She shuffled out and returned with a pail of brown, greasy liquid, which she heaved onto the counter, drawing out four spoons from somewhere within her drapery and setting them down next to it.

"Stew for four," she muttered, vaguely.

"Thank you," said Teyla, brightly, ignoring Rodney's look of distaste.

"Please, have you any idea what this might be?" She held out the torn strip and Tilda leant forward and brought her face so close to it that her nose almost touched the surface. She turned her head this way and that, mumbling to herself, then grasped Teyla's hand and pulled it toward her so that a little more light fell on it. Finally, she straightened up and twitched her shawls back into place.

"No." She turned and trailed away, the door closing softly behind her.

"Our genial hostess!" announced Rodney. "Known throughout the land for her culinary delights and sparkling conversation!"

"Ssh! She will hear you!"

Rodney, unchastened, sniffed at the stew. "We would've been better sticking to MREs."

The front door swung wide and Ronon and John entered, their hair, skin and clothes gleaming wetly in the dim lobby.

"What the hell is that, McKay?" said John, spotting the stew.

"Dinner," said Ronon, prosaically, grabbing the pail's handle and making for the stairs.

oOo

"You enjoying that, big guy?"

Ronon shook his head, still chewing, swallowed, and gave his verdict.

"'S pretty bad." He took another spoonful, and continued to eat, with the indiscriminate attitude of a man who'd been on the verge of starvation more times than he could count. He glanced up. Sheppard leant back against the bed, twirling his spoon between his fingers. Teyla sat, cross-legged, calmly chewing. Rodney leant against the wall, a pack balanced between his knees, fishing out MREs and sorting through them, probably to find the cake, Ronon thought.

"D'you think everyone eats like this here?" said Sheppard, throwing up his spoon and catching it neatly.

"What, squatting round a communal trough, forcing down lumps of gristly meat? Yes. Yes, I do. This place is barbaric!" Rodney tore open a packet and bit into a piece of cake with a look of ecstasy. "'S be-ah," he said, indistinctly.

Ronon shook his head. "Isn't meat. They grow it, in labs."

"Huh," said Rodney. "Interesting... but still disgusting."

"Ronon, when you were at the bar, Zanta referred to her people as 'the remnants of Pereyne-that-was.’"

Ronon's spoon halted in its progress toward the pail. He sat back and looked at Teyla.

"Pereyne?" he repeated. She nodded.

"You guys heard of the place?"

"Everyone's heard of Pereyne," said Ronon. He recalled listening to tales of the almost mythical world as a schoolboy, hearing about its wonders and delights, learning about its fall at the hands of the Wraith. "On Sateda, there was a group called themselves 'Remember Pereyne.' Campaigned for ways of protecting us against the Wraith, limiting population growth, stuff like that. Didn't work."

He dipped his spoon back in the pail and carried on eating, feeling an ache in his jaw and a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the tough chunks of meat.

"The fall of Pereyne is a story everybody knows," murmured Teyla, sadly. "I never thought that I would come here myself. And to find a population still living is... miraculous."

"If you call this living," Rodney grumbled.


	3. Chapter 3

John regarded the bloodshot, shadowed eyes, in the unshaven face, in the cracked bathroom mirror. He touched his bruised jaw, scowled at himself and decided not to bother shaving; just like he'd decided not to bother with a shower, when rusty water spluttered reluctantly from the showerhead. The basin faucets both gave out thin streams of lukewarm water, even though, presumably, one was meant to be cold and one hot. John shrugged, and washed as best he could, yawning and grumbling to himself.

Nobody had slept well. John had been on watch when Ronon's miner friends had returned, with much shouting, slamming of doors and, as far as he could tell, rearranging of furniture. He'd been sitting on the broad windowsill, leaning back against the side of the embrasure, when the noise started, but every time a door had been slammed (which was often), the whole house had shuddered, so that it vibrated painfully against the back of his head. He'd got up and prowled silently between his and Rodney's room and next door, where Teyla had been sprawled luxuriously across most of the bed and Ronon perched precariously on the brink. _He knows his place,_ John had thought. The furniture-moving party directly above their rooms had continued, so that Rodney had tossed, turned, squeaked complaints and pulled both pillows over his head, Teyla had done likewise, but without the complaining and Ronon had got up and offered to relieve John early.

So then it had been John tossing and turning and swearing at the racket going on above them, until it had subsided and he had snatched a couple of hours of dead-to-the-world sleep, which had left him feeling dopey and irritable. Arriving back at the room, he put one foot against the bedframe and gave it a violent shove.

"McKay! Get up!"

"Still dark."

"It's always dark here," said John, shortly. "Street lights are on, so that means morning. Get up."

Rodney sat up and rubbed both hands over his face and then through his hair.

"God, I feel like crap."

John, sorting through MREs, glanced up at him, but said nothing.

"Guess I look like crap, too. There coffee in that lot?"

John shrugged.

Rodney fought back the blankets, grabbed some clothes and padded, barefoot, in the direction of the bathroom, grumbling.

oOo

The morning's plan: Teyla and Ronon to ask around, door-to-door, near the Gate to see if they could find any witnesses to the events surrounding the missing team's final, broken communication. John and Rodney would go to the Getters' Clan House in the first instance and follow any leads from there.

Rodney pulled his hat lower as they made their way Gatewards, wondering if the constant dripping moisture was rainwater making its way down from the outside world, or was it condensation from the warm breath and industry of so many people, living in an enclosed space. It was a miserable place to live, he thought, although this morning the narrow ways were livelier and the inhabitants didn't look any more miserable than many he'd seen in this galaxy. Tiny stores and businesses lined the way, awnings extended to protect their wares and customers from the damp, lights shining out into the darkness. From somewhere above came the sound of small feet running on metal, the laughter of children, the roar of an enraged adult. Normal life was happening here; hidden deep underground, but normal, nevertheless.

"There is a way up here, John," Teyla said. "Ronon and I will ask at the dwellings that overlook the Gate."

"Okay." He looked at his watch. "Check in in two hours, but if you can't raise us on the comms, go to Zanta's and wait. C'mon, McKay."

Rodney followed, and they emerged into the alley adjacent to the Gate, which was as gloomy and deserted as ever. They stopped for a brief check-in with Atlantis and to ask the ubiquitous Brant for directions, which he happily gave, in exchange for another power bar.

"You gonna buy a hat, yet? Looking pretty damp there, 'n' your friend's all nice and dry!"

"I wouldn't say dry, exactly," said Rodney. "But at least there's no water running down my neck."

"I'll pass, thanks," John said to Brant.

"Oh, well, on your head be it!" The hat-seller went into paroxysms of wheezing amusement at his own wit, which faded behind them and disappeared as they turned a corner.

The Getter Clan House was on a street wider than most, a large, sprawling construction of what looked like concrete and iron girders, the main door having a bolted-together portico and a brick surround, in an attempt at grandeur. John pulled a handle to one side of the door and a bell chimed within. They waited. John's boots shifted on the rusty metal surface. Rodney sighed. He reached out and gave the handle a succession of sharp tugs.

"Don't break it, Rodney!"

"It might get their attention, at least!"

The sharp clanging of the bell resulted in the sound of bolts being drawn back, and the huge iron door opened a crack. Suspicious eyes looked up and down.

"What do you want?"

John introduced himself and Rodney and explained their business.

"There's no-one here. The family are away."

The door began to close. John put his weight against it.

"We heard they were missing, like our friends."

Rodney added his weight to John's and the door began to open.

"I can't help you. There's no-one here!"

"You're here!"

The door gave suddenly, revealing a dimly lit corridor and a man sprawled on the floor.

"Please don't hurt me!"

"We're not gonna hurt you." John pulled the man to his feet, but retained a tight grip on his arm. "We just want to talk. Now, why don't you take us somewhere we can do that, nice and civilised?"

"And you can rustle up some snacks while you're at it! Man suffering from an inadequate breakfast here!"

"McKay!"

Watery blue eyes in a thin, pale face flickered between John and Rodney. The man raised a hand and rubbed his forehead.

"I don't know what to do! The master gone, nobody giving orders..."

"Well, you can start by talking to us," said John with friendly persuasion. "If we find our people, maybe we'll find yours too."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, yes, come then."

"And that was yes to snacks too, right? Right?"

They followed the servant deep into the building. Rodney wasn't, in general, interested in furnishings, but couldn't help noting the richness of the dark red patterned flock wallpaper, which would have been expensive even on Earth. There were also curlicued golden light fittings, which he thought rather tasteless and other luxuries such as dark wood side tables and ornaments of china and glass. _These Getters keep the best of their finds for themselves_ , thought Rodney.

After several turns and descents, the passageways became plain and functional, and several servants in drab attire turned startled glances their way. They came to a large, high-ceilinged room which smelt of coal-smoke and vegetables.

"The kitchen," they were informed, apologetically. "It wouldn't be right to use any of the family rooms, with the master away."

"Of course not," said John. "Now, why don't you tell us who you are, for a start?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Please, sit." Rodney sat next to John at the sturdy wooden table that dominated the room. He drummed his fingers impatiently, sniffing in vain for scent-traces of baking or coffee. "My name is Hanto. I run the household for the family." Hanto snapped his fingers and called and three girls appeared, bobbing respectfully, but with barely suppressed lurking smiles. "Yashna! Tea and refreshments for my guests. You two can make yourselves scarce! And no listening at the door!" The two girls exited, giggling. Yashna set a large kettle on to boil and disappeared into a larder.

"Our friends went missing two ni... er, darks ago. We think they came here that evening," John said. "Maybe with two of your clan, Mened and Angaray?"

Hanto sat down, looking troubled. "Yes, yes, there were guests that night, and they must have been brought here by at least one of our own or they would have had to come in through the main door." He looked at John and Rodney apologetically. "This home might as well be a maze, for the uninitiated. There are many sides doors and we servants are not always called to attend to guests, so sometimes we don't know who is in the house. They wait on themselves," he said, as if such a thing were slightly improper.

Yashna set a tray on the table, which held not only tea, but a variety of cookie-like items. Rodney's hand hovered briefly over the plate, selected the largest cookie and he began to nibble, busily. It had a slight cinnamon-like flavour. The servant girl stood awkwardly, twisting her apron between her fingers.

"Off you go, girl! I'll pour the tea!"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought I should say..."

"Yes, yes, spit it out, girl!"

"Master Angaray came to the kitchen that night!" She looked down and blushed.

"Did he now? I won't ask what for!"

Yashna giggled. "He had me make a tray of tea, and said there were two special guests, and that maybe the Getters'd be in charge from now on."

"Special guests?" barked Rodney. "Did he tell you their names? What they looked like?"

"No. But..." She hesitated. "And I know it was wrong, Sir, but I followed the master, cos I wanted a look for myself."

"And?" Rodney demanded.

"They were dressed same as you. A man with dark skin and a woman."

"And the family was there?" asked Hanto. "What else did you see? Why haven't you come to me earlier, foolish girl?"

"I didn't see nothing else, Sir! I had my duties and I went away!"

"Well, you can take yourself off now, if you've nothing else useful to say. Go on! Off with you!" Hanto took a gulp of his tea, and the cup rattled, as he replaced it on its saucer. "I'm sorry. I'm... we're all very worried. About the family."

"Didn't seem like she was that bothered," Rodney muttered.

"Of course you are," said John. "And at least now we know our friends were here."

Rodney took a rectangular cookie and bit into it. It was slightly salty and had a nice, crisp crunch. "But what happened then? Where did they go next?" he asked, taking a mouthful of tea and looking speculatively at the cookie plate.

"Well, that I don't know, I'm afraid," said Hanto. "All I know is, in the morning the family was gone, and with the Kethrons gone, who will lead the clan now?"

"So, that's Galta Kethron?" asked John.

"Yes, and his wife, Tythia and son Jerret."

"And was there any sign of a disturbance?" asked Rodney, taking a large, round cookie.

"No..." Hanto said, doubtfully. "But when we came to clean the meeting room, I noticed a vase was missing and I found some shards of pottery."

"A vase?"

"Blue and white. From above. None of your rough Maker ware. Valuable. None of the girls will admit to knowing anything about it. But who's to pay for it, that's what I'd like to know?"

John took a cookie and munched, thoughtfully. He swallowed, sipped his tea and said, "I was told there was a Maker place round here. Would they have been open late? Could our friends have gone there?"

"The factory? Yes, they'd be open late. Or working, anyway. Maybe not open to visitors. I can tell you how to get there."

oOo

"This is useless," said Ronon. "None of them saw anything. Or if they did, they're not telling."

He looked out over the inner courtyard of the apartment block, rubbish-strewn and partially flooded; a breeding ground for disease.

"We must keep trying, Ronon. There are still several apartments on this side."

Teyla knocked at the next door and, after a few seconds, it opened a little way and a very small girl peered round the edge. She looked at Ronon's knees, and as her gaze travelled upward, her eyes grew big, a hand clutched at a strand of her pale blonde hair, and she put it in her mouth and chewed it. Her head tipped back to look at the towering heights above her. Ronon hid behind his hair.

"Hello," said Teyla. "Is your mother at home? Or your father?"

The girl said nothing, but continued to stare at Ronon. He stared back between his dreadlocks, then let them fall, retaining just one. He put it in his mouth and chewed it. The girl smiled. Teyla crouched.

"My name is Teyla, and this is Ronon. What is your name?"

"Hennie," she said, still gazing at Ronon, who wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"Hennie, is there an adult at home? A grown-up?"

"Mommy's here."

"Can you get her for us?"

Hennie shook her head. "Mommy can't walk."

"Do you think we could come in?"

Hennie shook her head again, but then a voice called out, "Henneta, who's that? Who's at the door?"

The little girl ran off. Ronon spat his hair out of his mouth.

"We should just go in."

"I do not want to scare them."

"We're not scary. We're the good guys."

"Ronon..." Teyla raised her P90 and nodded her head at his weapon.

"Huh. See what you mean."

Hennie appeared once more.

"Mommy says what do you want and she's paid the rent and she doesn't want to buy if you're selling," she babbled, looking pleased with her powers of remembrance.

"We would just like to ask your mother some questions."

Hennie looked thoughtful. She turned to scuttle off again.

"Wait!" Teyla holding out a small container of the multivitamins that Carson had sent through the gate.

"What's that?"

"It's got sun in it," said Ronon.

Hennie snatched the pot and ran. She returned swiftly.

"Mommy says come in."

The apartment was tiny, dark and smelled of damp and mildew. There was a door on the right as they entered and, looking in, Ronon saw a dirty kitchen, its minimal floor space taken up by a box and a high stool next to it; it looked like Hennie was the cook. The narrow corridor passed one more door, closed, and at the far end was a room lit by an unshaded bedside lamp. There was a small table and two chairs, a rumpled cot and a bed next to the window. The bed was occupied.

"Is it true? These got sun in?" The pill bottle was held out in a trembling hand.

"Yes, and other things too, to promote good health," replied Teyla.

"Sit. Sit down. What do you want to know?"

The woman had a good view of the window, Ronon thought, and it didn't look like she moved much. Her face was greyly shadowed, her hair wispy and her arms thin and brittle-looking. The shape of her legs beneath the blankets looked wrong and he thought her spine was twisted oddly.

"You'll be here about those two that were taken," she said abruptly.

"You saw them?" asked Teyla.

"I saw them, I saw you, I see everything from here. Ain't going nowhere, that's for sure." She smiled, ruefully. "The name's Alsa."

Teyla introduced herself and Ronon. "You are unable to walk?"

"Never been above, and my folks couldn't afford food with sun in it when I was growing." She rattled the pills again. "Too late for me, but these might save my Hennie. Anyhow, you wanted to know 'bout your friends?"

"Yes. You said they were taken?"

"Two of them. The other two weren't there, that time. When they first came through, there were four. The leader, the black-skinned man, and two women, soldiers I guess - they looked comfortable with their weapons. Like yours." She gestured toward Teyla's P90. "Then another man. He seemed a bit awkward, nervous maybe. It was him and one of the women I saw. Late. They went into the Gate tunnel, but they were followed."

"Who followed them?" asked Ronon. "Did you know them?"

"Four men. I don't know... it was pretty dark. I think they were Makers."

"Why do you say that?" asked Teyla.

"Well, they mostly wear dark red, which I couldn't say for sure these folks did, but Getters, they wear hats with peaks at the front, see? And these had round hats like Makers."

"Did you see what happened to our friends?"

"I heard the Gate, then, not long after, the four came out, carrying your two between them. Went off toward the Maker place, down that way." She pointed in the opposite direction to Zanta's.

"Were they alive?"

"I reckon they must've been, even though they let themselves be carried." She shrugged. "Why take 'em if they were dead? Why not leave 'em or dial up and let the splash take 'em?"

Teyla looked at Ronon. They'd learned all they could.

"Give her some more," Ronon muttered, his eyes going to the little girl.

Teyla nodded and drew out another pill bottle. She held it out and Alsa took it with pitifully grateful thanks.

"We sent our team here to trade," said Teyla. "We would like to help your people. I hope we still can."

oOo

"So, not just a quick 'in-and-out', fire off a few rounds and grab our team kind of mission, then."

"Doesn't look like it."

"Bet you wish it was. This questioning thing? Slow, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"The cookies are good, though. Unusual flavours."

"Did you steal the cookies, McKay?"

"I just slipped a few into a convenient pocket. You wouldn't want me to go hypoglycaemic would you?"

John didn't think there was any danger of that, but, wisely, didn't comment. And Rodney was right; he'd feel much more at ease if he knew Jordan's team were being held somewhere. Then he could just break them out, go home and scrub the address from the dialling system: job done. All this hoofing it around searching for clues just wasn't John's kind of thing. And Rodney wasn't his ideal interrogation partner either; John would have been happy playing either the good cop or the bad cop element of the usual pairing, but he wasn't sure how to pitch it when his opposite number was rude, impatient, greedy cop. Did he have to remain polite and refuse all snacks? Because that didn't seem fair.

"Is that it?"

A white light shone out from high on the side of a large warehouse. There were double height doors that looked like they'd roll out to either side, and a small door, labelled 'Visitors'.

"Visitors. That's us!"

"Why so eager, McKay?"

"People that make things? There have to be some scientists in there!"

"I doubt there'll be anyone on your level."

"Well, no, of course not. Who is? But even so... Come on! Chop-chop! In you go!"

John turned the handle. The door was unlocked. He went in. There was a woman behind a counter, protected by a thick transparent barrier.

"Can I help you?" she asked, glaring at John's P90 disapprovingly.

"Yes! We need to see whoever's in charge!" Rodney said, before John could get a word out.

"Do you mean the factory foreman or Mr Breckna?"

"Who's more important?"

The receptionist sneered slightly, even while her voice still retained a tenuous hold on politeness. "Mr Breckna's the Clan Leader."

"Oh, really? Him then!"

"What names shall I give?"

John got in first. "Please tell Mr Breckna that Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard and Dr Rodney McKay would like to speak to him, if it's convenient." His ingratiating smile won him an appreciative look and a slight simper.

"I'll be right back." She disappeared through a door to one side of her booth.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"The whole intergalactic Joey Tribbiani thing? 'How you doin'?'"

"I was just being polite, McKay! You might want to try it sometime!"

Rodney drew himself up. "I gave up on politeness after the time a certain meat-headed thug made me ask politely for my lunch bag and then emptied it into the trash, thereby ensuring my descent into hypoglycaemia during the course of an already traumatic Phys. Ed. lesson."

John, not sure what to say, shoulder-bumped him roughly. "I'd'a beat him up for you, McKay!"

"Well, of course you would! I suppose," he said, withdrawing another cookie from his pocket, "That what you really mean by 'being polite', is 'being polite up to a certain point, after which violence will ensue'."

John considered this. "Yeah, sounds about right."

"Please, come this way." The receptionist ushered them through into the inner recesses of the factory. John felt Rodney sag with disappointment; clothes were being made, some furniture, and over in the far corner some kind of machinery.

"There must be more to it than this," Rodney muttered. "Hey, Mrs Reception person! Where do they make those street signs?"

"Rodney!"

"I'm sure Mr Breckna will be happy to answer any of your questions, Sir!" she said, through gritted teeth, with the implication that she hoped her boss would, at the very least, sling him into the street.

"Tone it down, Rodney!" John admonished and received a grunt in return, which was almost certainly a negative.

They were led up a flight of stairs to a comparatively luxurious office. A large, well-fed man with a pink complexion sat behind a heavy desk of lustrous wood; the big boss, presumably. Another man stood; he was tall, but stooped and carried an armful of rolled papers, which John assumed were designs. He turned suddenly when they entered and dropped the rolls on the floor. John helped him pick them up.

"Thank you, um... clumsy of me."

"Yes, it was," said Mr Breckna. "But still not as clumsy as those designs! See that they are done again!"

"Yes, Sir, Mr Breckna!" The man left, bobbing his head obsequiously.

"Gresden, the factory foreman," Breckna informed them dismissively. "I may have to replace him." The round face seemed to take on a sinister aspect for a moment, but then he stood up and was suddenly wreathed in cheer.

"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard and Dr Rodney McKay, do I have that right? Welcome to my humble manufactory! Please, pull up a chair!"

John and Rodney did so. The chairs were highly padded and upholstered in dark brown leather, matching the luxury of the rest of the furnishings. It seemed that this was a distinctly unequal society.

"Now, what can I do for you... off-worlders? I am correct in making that assumption, am I not?"

"Yeah, that's right," answered John. "We're trying to track down a missing team. Four of our people came through the Gate three darks ago and we've traced two of them as far as the Getter Clan House that night. We were wondering if they came here?"

Breckna sat back in his chair, his hands raised expansively. "That, my friends, is easily ascertained! I will have my receptionist bring up her register and we will go through it together!"

"You weren't here that night?" asked John.

"Regrettably, no," he smiled, and then his face broke into a broad beam. "Although, I certainly have no reason to regret the little matter that occupied my full attention that evening!" He lowered his voice and leant forward, conspiratorially. "A certain lady was involved," he informed them, with a knowing leer. He got up, abruptly. "I will send for the register and perhaps... a little refreshment?"

He left the office and Rodney immediately gave a dramatic shudder.

"Eesh! What a sleaze-bag!"

"You don't like him?"

"Do you?"

"He's kinda..." John searched for an appropriate description. "Oily. I think that covers it. And, those designs? The paper they were drawn on. It's like that scrap Teyla found!"

"Really?" Rodney didn't have time to say more. Breckna entered the room, followed by the receptionist, who was carrying a large ledger.

"Put it on my desk!" Breckna directed. She did so and he leafed through the pages, running his finger down the close-written columns. "Ah, here we are. Major Jordan and Sergeant Bell. Whose hand is this, Copsen?" he barked.

"It isn't mine, Sir. I don't work that late. The men sometimes sign in guests for themselves after hours. They're not supposed to, I know."

"No. They're not. Find out who let them in and send them to me."

"Yes, Sir."

"And bring some food and drink! Quick, now!"

The unfortunate Copsen scurried away and Breckna's manner returned to its former false charm.

"You have to be firm with staff, you understand?"

"Yes, I do understand," said John neutrally and thought he detected a brief, hard gleam in Breckna's eyes.

oOo

Rodney nearly choked. He reached for his glass, spluttering a spray of fine crumbs and took a large gulp, then felt his eyes involuntarily squint and his nose tingle at the taste of the drink.

"What the...!" he broke off and began coughing again.

"McKay!"

"They're revolting!"

"Our homegrown sustenance is, perhaps, an acquired taste!" Breckna commented, unperturbed.

"What's in those things? Seaweed?"

"Amongst other things. Very nutritious, I assure you!"

"Well, you can keep your nutrition!" Rodney took out the last of the Getter cookies from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth, desperate to lose the harsh, chemical taste.

"Look, Mr Breckna, maybe we should come back later," said John.

"I am sure Copsen will be back soon. I can't think what's keeping her!"

A knock came at the office door and the receptionist entered, timidly.

"Well? Where are they?" Breckna snapped.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I've been all over the factory, and nobody will tell me who signed those visitors in."

"That's just not good enough, woman! Do I have to remind you of your position?"

"Now hold on a minute," John intervened. "There's no need for threats!"

Breckna turned his cold gaze on John.

"I think perhaps you are right, Colonel Sheppard. You should leave, and return only when you feel able to respect my authority to do as I see fit on my own premises."

For a moment, Rodney thought John would say something rash, but he merely gave a sharp jerk of his head and narrowed his eyes, then got up, thrusting his chair back with a little too much force.

"C'mon, McKay."

Rodney followed him out, along the walkway overlooking the factory floor, and down the stairs. A figure lurked in the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

"I saw your friends." It was the foreman, Gresden. "That night. I saw them."

"Who did they meet?" John asked. "Did you see them leave?"

"One of the boys showed them up to the office. I don't know who was up there. I was on my way out."

"You didn't see them leave?"

"No." He looked around, furtively. "I have to go!" He hurried away, and soon Rodney was outside, tugging his hat down over his ears once more, against the perpetual drip of rust-tinted water.

"That went well!" he commented.

John sighed and rubbed a hand round the back of his neck, as if to ease tense muscles. "At least we know Jordan and Bell were there. But not if they were allowed to leave. And there's that scrap of paper Teyla found that links the Makers with their rooms at Tilda's. We'll check in with Atlantis on our way to Zanta's, tell them what we found."

They began retracing their steps in the direction of the Gate.

"The only thing we know for sure is that Breckna's a nasty piece of work! Jordan and Bell may have been there, if you trust Gresden's word; nobody else saw them. And the paper? Something and nothing! Anyone could have dropped that! Are you listening?"

"Yeah, sure."

"No, you're not! What? What's wrong?" Rodney stopped and glared at John, but was nudged into motion again.

"Just keep moving. Be ready to run."

"What? Why?"

"Just a feeling."

"Oh, God! Your feelings always end in running or shooting, or running and shooting!"

A shot rang out from his left and Rodney heard a metallic ricochet and saw a spark struck at his feet. Another quickly followed from his right and struck the ground behind him.

"Run!"


	4. Chapter 4

John ran, one hand clasped on the shoulder of Rodney's vest, his mind busily calculating the trajectories of the bullets. He pulled Rodney down a side-alley out of the field of fire and then immediately wondered if he'd made the wrong choice; they would be easy to spot in the narrow channel. Footsteps rang out above and another flurry of shots kicked up sparks behind them.

"In here!" An archway led to a rubbish-filled courtyard.

"Sheppard, it's a dead end! We're trapped!"

"I don't think so!"

John pulled Rodney up a flight of stairs, then around the edge of the courtyard, up another flight, and then spotted a way through, taking them out the far side of the block. They hurtled into the dark passage and then out into dim orange light and across a flying walkway which joined the blocks. Shots came from their left and struck the metal and woodwork around them. Rodney shrieked and John tripped and fell, but stumbled to his feet and dragged Rodney into the shelter of the next block.

"Sheppard! I've been shot! Look, blood!"

John glanced at Rodney's hand and then his face, as they ran.

"Splinters, McKay. They're just cuts. This way!"

John heard Rodney's heavy footfalls behind him as he led him up and down, left and right, through the maze of passages and walkways. Rodney's breathing became laboured and he felt the rasp of his own breath in burning lungs.

"Please!" gasped Rodney. "Sheppard..."

John stopped, pulled Rodney into a doorway and brought his P90 up, scanning their surroundings.

"Have... have we lost them?"

John continued to watch and listen.

"I think so," he said. "You okay?"

"What, you mean other than the blood loss and the fact that my lungs are lodged halfway up my throat? Yes, peachy, thanks!"

John didn't respond. He still felt the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins; he'd better use it to get them to safety.

"C'mon, let's go."

John spotted a stairway. They made their way down to ground level, where a couple of boys were playing ball.

"Which way to Zanta's?"

One of the boys pointed and said, "Two blocks that way."

"C'mon, McKay."

"Sheppard? Who do you think it was? Shooting at us? And why? What's the point? Unless they don't want it to get out that Getters make better cookies than Makers! Seriously, though, do you think it was the Makers? Breckna set the heavies on us? Sheppard?"

"Let's just get to Zanta's, McKay."

John focussed hard on the way ahead, grabbing hold of Rodney's vest once more, determined to get his teammate to safety.

"Sheppard, this way!"

Rodney was tugging him toward the clear blue light of Zanta's sign and then they were through the swing doors and passing, unchallenged, into the bright, welcoming light beyond.

oOo

Teyla received only the harsh crackle of static when she tried her radio, so she and Ronon made their way to Zanta's to wait. The bar was quiet; just a few locals in ones and twos, solitary drinkers and couples lunching on oily-looking soup and chunks of something grey and spongy that was probably supposed to be bread. Ronon was waylaid by the fidgety little man, Friegar, who sat at the bar with an empty glass and a hopeful expression. Ronon obligingly bought him a drink and was copiously rewarded with a rapid patter of conversation. Perhaps he would learn something useful, Teyla hoped.

"Your other boyfriends not with you today?"

Teyla achieved a smile at Zanta's attempt at humour and pulled out the chair next to hers. Perhaps the manageress would be more forthcoming with information, woman-to-woman.

"Please, sit."

Zanta sat, gesturing at the barman.

"I did not mean for you to provide refreshment. I am quite willing to pay!"

Zanta casually waved away Teyla's offer. "Relax! It's rare enough I get company from someone who's... let's say, straight down the line? I think that's safe to say of you and your friends. No hidden agenda, right?"

"We just want to find our lost team, as you know."

The barman set down a tray on the table, which, Teyla was relieved to see, held only tea, rather than anything stronger. Zanta poured the pale green liquid into two glasses and added a pinch of powder from a small bowl.

"Sweetener," she said.

"Oh, I do not usually..."

"Trust me, with this tea, you do."

Teyla took a sip and grimaced her agreement. The tea was extremely bitter and slightly oily.

"Not the most subtle taste, is it? Still, it's full of the good stuff!"

"Vitamin D? Sun, as you say?"

Zanta nodded. "That's right."

Teyla thought of Alsa and her little girl. Such luxury would be far beyond their means.

"So where have you hidden your gallant Colonel and the delicious Dr McKay?"

Teyla explained John's hopes of discovering information amongst the Getters and Makers and was about to add that she was becoming a little concerned at her teammates' lateness, when there was a disturbance at the entrance. She first noticed Rodney, a bloody handkerchief held to one side of his face and a red stain that had run down to his neckline, but then her eyes were drawn to John, his right hand clutching the shoulder of Rodney's tac vest, his P90 dangling, unsupported, from its sling.

"Sheppard, stop dragging me, we're here!" Rodney took the cloth away from his face to use both hands to pry John's fingers loose, but it wasn't until Teyla stood up and John's eyes fastened on her that he let go and she saw the last colour drain from his already pale face.

Zanta called out sharply, "Dennet!" and the doorman, who had been hovering close behind the pair, pulled out a chair and pushed John into it as he began to collapse. Teyla rushed forward as John sagged onto the table, his left arm dangling limply at his side.

"What? Sheppard? What?" Rodney spluttered.

Teyla crouched down next to John and searched around his sleeve, finding a tear in the back, just below his shoulder. Her hands came away wet with blood and she noticed a red trickle making its way down John's hand and dripping steadily onto the floor.

"What happened, Rodney?" She pulled a pressure bandage from a pocket and, with Zanta's help, tied it tightly around John's arm.

"Someone was shooting at us! Some splinters of wood hit me, but I didn't realise... he didn't say!"

Teyla heard a faint mumbling and saw John's lips move. She leant closer.

"McKay... safe..."

"Yes, John, you are both safe now," she said.

"I'll get Beckett," said Ronon.

"Yes! No! You can't go out there, Ronon, they're probably waiting!" said Rodney.

"Dennet will go with you. Nobody will attack you if they see my man!" said Zanta. "Wait! Dennet, carry Colonel Sheppard up to my office first!"

The huge doorman slipped one muscly arm under John's knees and another round his shoulders and lifted him up without apparent strain. John groaned.

"Careful, Goliath, watch his arm!" Rodney followed behind, directing and admonishing all the way up the stairs and into Zanta's office. Dennet put John down, carefully, on the couch and then, urged on by Rodney's brittle exhortations, departed with Ronon, to request a medical team from Atlantis. Rodney continued to twitch and fuss.

"Rodney, sit down," said Teyla firmly. "I need to assess John's injury and then I will deal with yours!"

"Sit, yes, sit, good idea!" He pulled out the desk chair, sat, stood up, wavered, sat down again and, pulling out a power bar from his pocket, began to eat, rapidly and mechanically, his expression vacant, his eyes moving restlessly.

Teyla didn't know where Zanta had gone, and she could have done with some help, as she struggled to remove John's tac vest. He sat in a miserable slumped heap, shivering with shock, sometimes supporting himself, sometimes letting his weight fall forward onto Teyla's shoulder. She had unwound the bandage and was trying to take off his jacket when Zanta returned with a large case, which she put down on the low table, and a blanket, which she draped round John's shoulders.

"You have medical supplies?"

"Yes, we get a fair few injuries here when fights break out!"

The bitter metallic tang of blood wafted up as Teyla peeled the sleeve of the jacket off over John's wounded arm. He shuddered and his breathing quickened.

"Lie him down," Zanta said. "I'll cut this off." She cut through the sleeve and down the side of John's t-shirt with scissors from her medical kit. Teyla realised that Zanta was wearing thin, transparent gloves of the type she had seen used in the Atlantis infirmary. Zanta looked up. "The bleeding's slowing down. Go and wash your hands and then we'll get him patched up." She nodded toward a door in the corner of the room.

Teyla found a tiny but well-stocked bathroom and scrubbed her hands and arms, using plenty of the pink, scented soap. She tried to push aside her doubts, but there was something wrong here, something that struck a false note in her mind; the rich clothes, the tea, the medical kit. They represented wealth far beyond the dreams of most people on this world; by what means, or by who was Zanta so well supplied?

Teyla emerged to find that Zanta was carefully cleaning John's arm around his injury and Rodney had turned away, squeamishly.

"There're gloves there," Zanta said, absently, concentrating on her work. Teyla put some on. She looked down at John, but his face was pressed into the seat cushions. She could see, now that the surrounding blood had been cleaned away, that there was an entry and an exit wound, so the bullet wasn't lodged inside. She wondered how close it had come to the bone; could the arm be broken? Zanta was preparing an injection.

"What is that?"

"Local anaesthetic."

"Should we not wait for Dr Beckett?"

Zanta paused. "It's up to you. I'm not trained. But I think there's less risk of infection if we do what we can now, and then your doctor can take over when he gets here."

There was a muffled comment from the seat cushions. Teyla knelt.

"John?"

He shifted so that she could see his face, which was shadowed and tense with pain, his normally springy forelocks stuck damply to his forehead.

"Just... just stick me with that stuff and get on with it!" He pressed his face back into the cushions.

They went ahead, and when the anaesthetic had taken effect, the wounds were thoroughly cleaned, sutured and bound and Teyla was thinking it was high time Carson arrived to take over. They managed to arrange John so that he could sit up enough to take some oral painkillers and then lay him back down and covered him with the blanket. Zanta gathered up the bloody swabs and the remains of John's t-shirt and left the room.

"Is he okay?"

"Yes, for now at least," she said, checking John's pulse, "but I will be glad when Dr Beckett arrives." Rodney didn't respond and Teyla looked up, noticing the drooping mouth, frowning brows, and above all, the lack of complaint, which told her that all was not well with her teammate. "I will attend to you now, Rodney."

"Oh. Yes."

Teyla gathered some tweezers and more cleaning supplies and arranged the desk lamp so that it shone strongly on Rodney's face.

"I feel like I'm about to be interrogated," he said, nervously. Teyla raised the tweezers, but he put a hand on her arm, stopping her. "See, you're going to need me to sit still and not talk, or emit any manly expressions of agony or anything, aren't you? So, can I just say, in advance, for the record, 'ow', to the power of at least seventeen!"

"I will try not to hurt you, Rodney."

"I know you'll try not to. Oh, just go ahead."

Rodney scrunched his eyes tightly shut and clenched his fists and Teyla, as quickly as she could, withdrew all the chips and splinters of wood, cleaned the cuts and stuck band-aids over the worst of them.

"It is finished. You can relax now."

"Oh." Rodney opened his eyes and blinked. "Well. That wasn't too bad." He put a hand up to touch his face and hastily dropped it under Teyla's glare. "I wonder if there's any food going."

Teyla smiled at Rodney's predictable reaction.

"I will go and see."

oOo

Rodney turned his head to one side to view the pattern of band-aids that Teyla had applied to his face. He'd have to grow a beard, he thought. Or half a beard. Or just shave around the band-aids. He squinted at the mirror; the pattern was a little like one of the constellations he could see from his quarters on Atlantis. He shrugged, opened the bathroom door and flicked off the light.

Teyla had left just the desk lamp on, and angled it towards the window so that the couch, facing away from Rodney, was in shadow. Rodney could see John's feet poking over the end, which he didn't think could be particularly comfortable. Where had Carson had got to? Was there a problem on Atlantis? And where was his food? He could go and look, but Teyla probably wouldn't be happy if he left John alone. He perched on the edge of the desk, drummed his fingers against the wood and sighed heavily. There was a rustling sound and a wince, followed by a croak. Rodney turn the desk lamp round and peered over the back of the couch. Another croak and a weak twitch of a hand and Rodney caught on.

"Oh, yes, water." There was a glass and a jug on the table. He poured some and held it out. John's face, already revealing his pain in compressed lips and lined brow, took on an extra layer of irritation. Rodney put down the glass and wondered how to help John sit up without hurting him, which resulted in ineffectual hand-flapping on Rodney's part, and a cross growling sound from John. John held up his uninjured arm, his fingers flicking impatiently. Rodney took it and John pulled himself up and round, moaned through gritted teeth and arranged his limp left arm to rest across his lap. He let his head flop against the back of the couch, closed his eyes and thrust out his right hand. Rodney put the glass in it. John drank, thirstily, water overflowing and running down his chin and splashing onto his chest.

"Shouldn't you slow down?"

John grunted out two indistinct syllables between gulps and the middle finger of his left hand twitched. Rodney took the hint, and when the glass was held out, swiftly refilled it. He sat down on the table.

"It could have been me," he said, abruptly. "Or you. Well, it was you, but I mean more terminally."

John stopped drinking and rested the glass against his thigh.

"What?"

"If we'd been a fraction of a second faster. Or slower. It could have been either of us."

"Huh?"

"God, what do they put in the local painkillers? You were dragging me along, as usual, which, by the way, isn't conducive to a good running style." He paused. "Although, thank you, for the life saving."

"Welcome."

"So, your arm was stuck out behind you, between us. See?" Rodney demonstrated. "If we'd been an instant faster, that's me 'kablooey!' for want of a better word." He mimed his head exploding. "Or an instant slower, then you, ditto the kablooey."

John shook his head, drowsily. "You're thinkin' melons arncha?" he slurred.

"Melons? What? Oh, you mean 'The Day of the Jackal'? The watermelon?"

"Yeah, but wrong type of round. No kablooey."

"Well, regardless of the kablooey factor, Sheppard, my point stands!"

"No. Doesn't. You're here. I'm here." John's fingers relaxed and Rodney caught the water glass before it fell. He lifted John's legs up and put them on the coffee table, regretting the absence of coffee, and pulled the blanket back over his friend.

"Right, that's it," he muttered. "If Carson's not here yet, I want to know why not!"

oOo

"Gate's dead," said Ronon succinctly.

"Dead? What? What do you mean, dead?" Ronon braced himself. He had been hoping to tell Teyla on her own and leave her to break the news to McKay, but he found himself the target of the flapping scientist, who hurtled down the stairs and across the bar toward him. "Are you sure you dialled the right address? Did you try a different address? Did you check the crystals? Not that you'd know what to look for, you barbarian!"

Ronon merely waited silently, knowing it to be an effective technique when dealing with a frustrated Rodney.

"Welcome to another 'McKay saves the day' scenario! It's all 'don't steal the cookies', 'don't be rude to little old ladies or receptionists or local business magnates' until something goes wrong, and then suddenly we're back to, 'fix the Gate', or, more usually, 'save us from our own stupidity!' Well? Let's go! Mr Fix-it is waiting!"

Ronon returned Rodney's finger-snapping impatience with his usual cool, steady regard.

"Crystals are gone."

The snapping fingers faltered.

"Gone? As in 'all'?"

"DHD's empty."

"Oh. Oh, well, that's... um... We're stuck here, then!"

"The Daedalus will come, Rodney," said Teyla.

"Yes, eventually! And they might even be able to beam us off this rock if we can find a way out of it first and if Sheppard doesn't die of infection in the meantime! And if we're happy to just abandon our missing team!"

"Find who's taken the crystals. Get 'em back."

"Nice summary, Conon. Perhaps you could whip out a whiteboard and some coloured markers and we'll brainstorm how exactly we're going to achieve those things!" Ronon wisely let the sarcasm wash over him without reacting and Rodney slumped onto a chair and rested his head in his hands. "Great. Just great. And I still haven't even had lunch."

"Did I hear a hungry scientist calling?"

Zanta deposited a tray on the table. Ronon's stomach growled in anticipation.

"Is that fish? You haven't put lemon on it, have you? No, of course not, no lemons here! Hey, Conon, trust you to grab the biggest piece! With your hands, I might add!"

Holding his fish in both hands, Ronon bit through its crisp coating and into the soft flesh beneath. It was oily and tasty and a bit bony, but Ronon didn't care; he just crunched it up and swallowed the lot. Teyla ate decorously, with a knife and fork and McKay was pretending to use his fork, but mostly popping chunks into his mouth with his fingers.

"This is very good fish," remarked Teyla. Her flickering glance caught Ronon's eye and she looked around subtly at other, less fortunate diners. Ronon followed her gaze and saw several envious expressions directed their way.

"I have my contacts amongst the Fisher Clan," smiled Zanta. "But Dennet tells me the Gate's out of action. And you can't bring your doctor through?"

"It appears that the Gate crystals have been removed," replied Teyla.

"The Getters probably took them out. They usually control Gate access, as I told you."

"Doubt it," said Rodney, chewing his fish. "There was no-one giving orders when we went to their place."

"Nevertheless. I'll send one of the boys to find out."

"Thank you, Zanta," said Teyla. "Is there a doctor here who can help us?"

"No, I'm sorry. There's a couple of medics that tend to the Miners," she said doubtfully, "but they're pretty rough and ready. Specialise in amputations."

"We don't want them!" Rodney exclaimed. 

"I am surprised that there has never been somebody sent off-world to train," Teyla said.

Zanta looked increasingly uncomfortable. "The clan chiefs won't allow it," she said, and continued, with a sigh. "If we're to remain hidden we have to limit our off-world activity. And also... it's a form of population control." She sounded ashamed.

"You allow your people to die who could be helped?" Teyla said, with restrained disbelief.

"It's not my choice!" Zanta said, hotly. "If it were up to me things would be very different! But it isn't, and the leaders say we don't have the resources to let the population grow. Which is true. You must have seen the overcrowding, the people fighting over any scrap of sun?"

"Huh. I bet the bosses get a doctor when they need one." Ronon let his disgust show in his voice. Zanta merely shrugged, helplessly.

"Then we'll just have to go to our friend Breckna for help," said Rodney. "Although it was probably the Makers shooting at us. Sheppard's going to need antibiotics."

"It is true that the Makers are likely culprits," agreed Teyla. "We found a witness who thought that they saw Makers carrying off two of our missing team."

"Oh, I'm sure that can't be right!" exclaimed Zanta.

"Why not? Breckna seemed like a nasty piece of work to me! And as for his cookies..."

Zanta ignored Rodney. "There's no need to go to Mr Breckna. I have anti-infective medicine."

"That is a great relief!" said Teyla.

"Only if it's any good," said Rodney. "And we still need the Gate working. So, what's our plan? A team to be found, crystals to track down, a Colonel to be looked after?"

"You should stay here tonight," said Zanta. "Work the bar for information and follow any leads tomorrow."

"You have guest rooms?" asked Teyla.

"Not on a regular basis, no. But there are my rooms, and the boys'll double up if I tell them to. Not there," said Zanta, seeing Teyla look up at the doors along from the office. "That's just storage rooms."

"There is another level above?"

Zanta smiled. "In this place, there's always another level, til you hit rock."


	5. Chapter 5

It was dark, so it was late; no, it was always dark here, buried beneath the rock and the earth and the stifling weight of secrecy. But again, no, the rock and earth were a solid, sheltering roof, far, far above his head and the stifling, smothering weight was some kind of satiny, quilted comforter. John threw it off sharply and then tightened his jaw and breathed through the pain his movement had awoken. He lay still, letting the throb even out and assessing his surroundings and his condition.

The room was dark, but was faintly illuminated by a narrow strip of light at ground level; presumably a door to a room with a wakeful occupant. _Zanta_ , John thought. _I'm in Zanta's bedroom;_ which explained the satiny bedding and the heavy-sweet amber scent that drifted up whenever he moved and made him want to sneeze. He wouldn't sneeze, though, because it would hurt. Which led John's wandering thoughts to his own condition. Hot, he decided. Naked, he worried? No, thank God; underwear in place. Thirsty, definitely. Pain level? Not brilliant, but he wouldn't put a number on it. Medics always wanted a number, he mused, between zero and ten, when surely if you were cursing through gritted teeth, that was all they needed to know? Anyway, it was his arm; he didn't think 'only his arm' exactly, because, well, arms were pretty essential, weren't they? But it wasn't an internal, organs-doing-what-they-shouldn't kind of injury; or not-doing-what-they-should. So, in that case, pain that he could safely ignore, he argued, determinedly. And he was especially determined because his self-assessment had resulted in awareness of a need that was rapidly becoming acute: the bathroom.

John formulated a plan of campaign: he would grasp his left elbow firmly with his right hand, and then he would swing his legs over the side of the bed while simultaneously sitting up. He would then stand and track the strip of light to its source, in the hopes that he would also find somebody with the appropriate local bathroom knowledge. At this point, it occurred to John to wonder why he was in Zanta's bedroom, rather than the Atlantis infirmary, and then he remembered McKay telling him that the DHD crystals were gone and nobody would admit to taking them, so that they were all stranded; and it was interesting that John couldn't seem to bring himself to care that much. He cared a bit more when he got as far as the sitting-up part of his plan and his head began to swim, because he knew that coping with blood loss would have been much easier with Beckett and his IVs on hand. He realised also that Zanta's painkillers were of the type that messed with your head so that you didn't notice the pain so much, rather than actually killing it. His arm felt hot and tight and he knew that there would be bruising and swelling as the outraged tissues reacted to the bullet's shockwave. The needs of his body pulling his mind back to his goal, John stood carefully, focussed on the line of light, and padded toward it across the soft floor covering. He felt his balance waver, but was close enough to the door to lurch his right shoulder conveniently against the frame. It was smooth and cool; he leant his forehead against it too and decided to give it a minute before he banged on the door with whichever part of his body seemed expedient.

An intermittent buzzing surprised John and he realised that his eyes had closed and he had dozed where he stood. His eyelashes flicked against the doorframe as he blinked, drowsily.

"Hello?... Yes, they were, they're here... Yes, I thought... Yes, the Colonel was shot... No, it's not too bad."

John frowned, his mind slow to make sense of the one-sided conversation. It continued.

"Yes, I'm afraid it does. And also they have an eyewitness who says that Makers carried off two of their lost team!"

Zanta was speaking to someone, passing information. She had a radio? No, radio wouldn't work here; too much conductive metal in this maze of streets, McKay had said. A telephone? She was still speaking.

"What shall I do? Do we stick to the same plan? Yes... Yes, I'll do that... Goodbye."

There was a rattle and the sound of a cupboard door shutting. John staggered backward, his legs hit the end of the bed and he sat down heavily, jarring his wounded arm and gasping in pain, feeling sweat gather on his brow. The pain pills must be wearing off, he thought, because his arm was beginning to force him to pay attention to its condition. But Zanta was passing information. To whom? Could he trust her now? Was she genuinely helping him or subtly poisoning him? What was the plan she had mentioned? And where was his team? John's head spun with pain and confusion. He pushed his fingers through his damp hair and realised he felt chilled and was starting to shiver.

The door opened and he snapped his eyes shut against the glare.

"Colonel!"

"Uh... bathroom?"

"Oh, yes, here, take my arm."

There was a door in the corner of the room. Zanta turned on the light.

"Do you need any help?"

"No. Thanks."

John shut the door and used the facilities and he was glad the room was tiny so that the walls weren't far away for the purposes of leaning against. He felt freezing cold and his arm hurt and he didn't know what to do. Then there were voices outside the door and one of them was Teyla's. He shook harder with relief; he'd make her stay and nothing would happen if Teyla was here.

"John? Are you alright in there?"

"Yeah, coming out now."

He opened the door and Teyla supported him over to the bed. He sat on the edge, shivering.

"Do not lie down yet, John. Zanta has some medicine for you."

What to do? Should he take it? Should he trust her? Could he actually afford not to take it? Zanta held out the cup containing liquid that was supposedly the local equivalent of antibiotics. He hesitated.

"John?"

"Uh... Not sure I should. Carson wouldn't like it."

Teyla knelt down and looked at him.

"I do not think you have any choice, John. You already have a fever. If your wound becomes badly infected, you could die."

"Oh. Well, when you put it like that..." He took the cup and drank. Teyla passed him two tablets.

"For the pain," she said.

"Maybe I don't need..." An eyebrow was raised. He took the pills, deciding he'd wait til Zanta had gone and then tell Teyla, and if she was suspicious, he'd just have to make himself sick or something. Which was perfectly plausible anyway; he really didn't feel that great. He swallowed the pills and then Teyla helped him lie down and pulled the satiny bedding up over him. He wanted to tell her to stay but his mouth didn't seem connected to his thoughts and then he couldn't see her and realised his eyes were closed. He tried to call out to Teyla, but knew that it was hopeless when he caught Zanta's whispered words: "...sedative in the medicine..." Teyla's answer became a muffled buzz. He slept.

oOo

Ronon sat at the bar, shovelling in his breakfast, which he wasn't going to think about too much, because thinking was to be avoided with food as bad as this. He'd asked if there was any fish left, but the barman had looked at him as if he'd asked for the moon, if this planet had one.

Ronon had spent the previous evening making friends and talking to people, in his own inimitable way, which consisted mainly of looming, drink in hand and grunting neutrally at appropriate conversational junctures, so that people felt safe to share any and all opinions, gossip and speculation. Sifting through the slew of information, Ronon had learnt that the Getters and Makers had recently been vying for overall political control and that the Getter clan was still in disarray, nobody having come forward to claim leadership. There was speculation that Clan Leader Breckna would step in and simply absorb the whole Clan into his own. Ronon wondered whether Breckna was hoping to strengthen his position by allying with Atlantis; not a chance, if Ronon had anything to do with it.

"Hey, have you heard?"

Friegar, his pale eyes bulging with excitement, perched himself on the stool next to Ronon.

"Heard what?"

"'Bout the bodies! Four of 'em! Out by the fans! I'm thinking they could be your friends!"

Ronon took a sip of his tea and said nothing.

"Or not." Friegar tittered nervously. "Could be anyone. Plenty of folks dying every day."

"You hear a description? Are they men? Women?"

"I just heard four bodies. Maybe they couldn't tell."

"What'll happen to them?"

"The Venters'll put 'em somewhere cold for a coupla days. See if anyone makes a claim. Then if not..." He shrugged. "Take 'em to the furnace, I guess."

"Is it far?"

Friegar shrugged again. "It'd take me a day to walk. But you made friends with Herrick and his crew, didn't you?"

"So?

"Miners use the railtrucks." He laughed at Ronon's ignorance. "They got rails here, there and everywhere if you know where to look. Bring the coal up from the mines to depots, for factories and folks that can afford to buy. Trucks travel back empty, see?"

"We could ride in them?"

"You could, if you ask. Part of the way, at least."

oOo

Rodney was woken by the rough opening of the door, the stomp of heavy footsteps and the thud of various heavy items dropping on the floor. He pushed his face further into the pillow and yelled.

"Go away!"

The door slammed, indicating the intruder's withdrawal. Rodney grumbled into the pillow in a half-hearted way, rolled over and sat up. It would have been nice to see morning light streaming in through the window, Rodney thought, but, with a sigh, he recalled that he was not likely to be seeing any kind of daylight in the near future. The room, instead, was lit by the usual combination of dull orange streetlighting, with a faint tinge of blue from Zanta's argon sign, several floors below. Rodney switched on the bedside lamp. The other bed was empty and there was no sleeping bag on the floor, where Ronon had spent part of the night, and then moved into Teyla's bed when she got up to check on John and didn't return. He wondered how Sheppard was doing. He also wondered how he was supposed to move around the room at all with all four of his team's packs and Major Jordan's team's packs dumped in a heap. And, while there was wondering in progress, Rodney wondered why all the packs had been brought here; he didn't remember a team decision to abandon Tilda's place, and although neither accommodation nor cuisine had been inspiring, they had at least had more room there. Maybe John was really ill and Teyla had decided they'd have to make this their permanent base! This thought had Rodney scrambling into his clothes and setting off for Zanta's rooms, stopping only to snatch a couple of MREs. And a few power bars, just in case.  
Rodney peered round the door into Zanta's lounge area. She wasn't there and there was no sound coming from the bedroom beyond. He crossed the room and pushed open the bedroom door. There was an unmoving lump in the bed, with a few tufts of hair sticking out above the comforter. Teyla sat cross-legged on the floor, a P90 and two handguns next to her, another P90 disassembled on her lap. She had moved the bedside lamp onto the floor to light her work so that she sat in a pool of brightness. She looked up.

"Rodney!" she smiled. "Good morning!"

He relaxed. Sheppard must be okay.

"How is he?"

Teyla's smile took on a brittle tension and in a rush of split-second thoughts, Rodney examined his conscience. No, he concluded, her displeasure wasn't aimed in his direction, thank God.

"He is still sleeping because Zanta thought it best to put a sedative in his anti-infective medicine during the night!"

"Oh. Why?"

"She said," Teyla continued, checking the action on the P90 with frightening briskness, "because the pain medication is not very effective."

Rodney sat on the floor and began laying out the contents of the MREs. "You think she had another reason?"

Teyla put the P90 down and pressed the tips of her fingers to her brow. "I do not know. My instincts tell me that her overtures of friendship are genuine, but..."

"But?"

"She has such luxury!" said Teyla, sweeping a hand round the soft comfort of the room. "And, moreover, she is respected and... has a certain protected status. She was so sure that Ronon would be safe with her man, Dennet, yesterday, when you and John had just been attacked."

"She's had our stuff brought here. From Tilda's. Did you ask her to do that?"

"No," said Teyla, her voice hard. "I did not. And while it is possible her actions are made out of genuine concern, I do not appreciate having no choice in the matter." She looked round at John, who lay motionless, breathing deeply. "I am sure it was the wrong choice to sedate John. We have no access to IV fluids which means he needs to drink."

"Shall I try waking him?"

"I have tried, several times. But, yes, we should try again."

Teyla put the weapons carefully to one side and set the lamp back on the nightstand. John's face was turned toward them, his skin pale and clammy-looking, his bruises from the bar-fight standing out yellow and purple amongst the two days' growth of beard.

"Jeez, look at the state of him! Are you sure he's okay?"

"Yes, Rodney, his fever is down now. So at least we know Zanta's medicine is effective."

"So, um... How do you want to do this? Because I'm guessing that giving him a good old shake wouldn't be the best idea!"

"No, it would not, Rodney!"

"Hey, I know! I'll tickle his feet!"

"Is John ticklish?"

"Like you wouldn't believe!"

Rodney folded back the comforter. John's arm looked bruised and swollen either side of the bandage. Rodney's nose twitched and he grimaced.

"That's a bathroom there in the corner, right?"

"Yes."

"With a shower?"

"Rodney!"

"Right, sorry, yes, tickling duties to perform!"

He ran a finger down John's instep, producing exactly zero response. He did it harder and the foot twitched slightly. Tickling then began in earnest. Rodney crouched down at the foot of the bed, his fingers jiggling and scrabbling as he made himself ignore the not altogether pleasant sensation of warm, moist skin. John's feet twitched repeatedly, his breathing sped up and changed into a series of annoyed huffs, which became grumbling, which ended with one bent leg thrusting out sharply, catching Rodney forcefully in the chest and toppling him to the floor.

"Gerroff, McKay!"

oOo

"You didn't have to kick me!"

"John! John, do not go back to sleep!"

"Typical! I come up with a solution and get kicked for my pains!"

"We should sit him up!"

The voices assaulted John's ears and for a moment he wanted to plunge back into blissful, peaceful darkness. But then, as he reached to find something to cover his head, a sharp flare of pain brought him further toward wakefulness, and he remembered.

"Zantasspy."

"What did he say?"

"Something about pie. Yes, breakfast, Sheppard! But there isn't any pie."

John prised open his sluggish eyes and saw two blurred faces in front of him. 

"Sheesspy!" he said, more urgently, annoyed that his mouth was slurring words that were perfectly formed in his head.

"There's no pie at all, Sheppard, and definitely no cheese pie! God, the man's raving!"

John managed a pretty convincing growl, judging by the way Rodney's face retreated quite sharply.

"Up!" he managed to say, and began to squirm, caterpillar-like, up the bed. He made it to a halfway upright reclining position, further bolstered by an extra pillow shoved behind him by Teyla, who then put a glass of water into his hand. He drank, suddenly aware of his thirst and a throbbing headache which, he guessed was the result of dehydration.

"How do you feel, John?" Teyla asked.

John flicked a finger, dismissively. "Fine. Zanta. She's passing intel."

He saw Rodney's mind processing.

"You weren't saying pie."

"Spy."

"How do you know this?"

"Heard her. In there." He nodded toward the lounge. "She has a radio? Phone? In a cupboard." John took another drink of water. "Heard it click shut."

Rodney and Teyla looked at each other.

"Watch the door for me," Rodney said.

They hurried into the lounge. John heard Teyla report, "There is nobody there, Rodney," and then there was the sound of cupboards and cabinets opening and closing.

"Here! Hmm... primitive. There's a wire going into the wall. There can't be a network, can there? We would have noticed a telephone exchange! Although, in this place, who knows? Maybe a direct line, though..."

John heard the cabinet close. Teyla and Rodney came back in and sat either side of the bed.

"Who'd she talk to?"

"Couldn't tell." John told them what he could remember of the conversation. It seemed blurred and distant and he still couldn't get his mind and voice to coordinate properly. "Feel like I've been drugged. Like bad drugs."

"Zanta put a sedative in the anti-infective medicine."

"Oh. Oh, yeah."

Teyla sighed and shook her head. "I believe she was doing what she thought best. I do not think she wants to harm us."

"Well, I don't think she can be trusted!" said Rodney. "We don't know who she's in league with!"

John sniggered.

"What?"

"'In league with'. Very cloak-and-dagger, McKay."

"You know what I mean!"

"I do not think she is entirely to be trusted either," said Teyla. "But, at the same time, it is natural that her loyalties should lie with some one or other of the main factions of this world."

"Yeah, well I don't like being drugged."

"No, but her medicine has helped, has it not? You feel better now?"

"Yeah, better than last night."

"I should change the dressing on your wound and then you should have another dose."

"Not the sedative!"

"No."

"Cos I need to get up soon."

"No, you do not."

John grumbled under his breath.

"You could get up to shower, though, because, I have to tell you, Sheppard..."

"Rodney!"

"Hey, Sheppard!"

"Ronon."

Ronon stood at the end of the bed, looking down at him.

"You look like crap."

"Thanks."

"Four bodies've been found."

John's heart lurched and he felt his head spin. He sagged further back into the pillows.

"Way to break it gently, Conan!"

"They might not be our team."

"And they might be!"

"Where were they found, Ronon?"

John closed his eyes and let the voices of his team blend together. Four bodies. A coincidence? His head throbbed in concert with his arm. They'd failed. And they were stranded. And he was effectively immobilised. _Nice work, John_ , he thought. _Mission accomplished._

"Sheppard! Hey, Sheppard!" Fingers snapped in front of his face. He opened his eyes, reluctantly. "Thought we'd lost you again!" Rodney said.

"John, Ronon and I will go and find out who these people were."

John frowned, his thoughts coming slowly. "Yeah... But, see if there's a back door out of this place. Go when no-one's looking. Do you know the way?"

"Yeah," Ronon grinned.

"What?"

"Herrick's gonna take us in the Miners' railtrucks. Sounds like fun!"

"It sounds extremely dangerous," said Rodney, "but I suppose those two things are the same to you!"

Ronon grinned.


	6. Chapter 6

"So where is it, then?"

Herrick smiled and took a strangely shaped metal tool from his pocket. He tapped his foot on the rusted metal surface of the alleyway.

"Down there. Budge over a bit."

Ronon shifted to one side, looked at Teyla and shrugged his shoulders. The miner rubbed away a couple of flakes of rust with his work-hardened fingers, inserted the tool into a hole in the metal plate and turned it.

"Give us a hand, then!"

He began working his fingertips under the panel that had lifted slightly. Ronon and Teyla crouched down and did likewise and they raised the heavy panel and swung it up vertically on its hinge. Herrick held it up.

"Don't want to let it fall and let the whole neighbourhood know what we're up to!"

Teyla looked down at the utterly black rectangular pit at her feet. "You said that the Mining clan commonly use these trucks for transport," she said. "Would those in authority not allow this?"

"Well, strictly speaking, we should've gone to one of the depots and filled in permits and all that. This is easier, though."

"How do we get on? Will it stop?" Ronon asked.

"Stop?" Herrick laughed. "No, you don't want to stop it! See, down there," he pointed, "the gradient's nice and shallow, so the trains are slow and you can just wait til you hear one coming and drop in." He wagged an imperative finger. "Further along, though, it'll be steep, so you'll want to keep your heads down and hold on."

"Cool," said Ronon.

"And how exactly do we climb out?" Teyla enquired.

Herrick scratched his chin. "You're both pretty fit, I take it? Pretty agile? Yes? Well, no problem, then! So there's a long stretch out in the open which will be the best place for you to get off. She'll have slowed down a bit by then, so you just grab one of the overheads, tuck yourself up and wait for the train to go by, then drop down onto the track. Then you get off the track sharpish in case there's another one coming! Ah, that's one coming now. Hear that? You ready?"

Teyla did not feel particularly enthusiastic about this mode of transport. She suspected that John, however, would have loved it, and would feel he had missed out on a rare treat. Ronon was bouncing with eagerness. Herrick took out a flashlight and shone it down into the underfloor passage. There was a growing rumble and Teyla could feel tremors through the soles of her boots.

"Who's going first?" asked Herrick.

"I will go," said Teyla, never one to back away from a challenge.

"Right, then. You'll be able to see the edges of the trucks as they go by. You get the rhythm of them, then you jump, see? Simple!"

Simple indeed, thought Teyla, but not necessarily easy. She watched the beam of Herrick's flashlight as it illuminated the track below. The rumbling and grinding increased and then there was movement. Flash, flash, flash: she jumped.

The fall was short and the landing brutal and Teyla was immediately flung hard to the back of the truck and all was darkness and noise and bitter grit between her teeth and in her eyes and nose. She coughed and sneezed and felt her eyes water. She thought she had heard a thud following her own landing and hoped Ronon had made it too. Teyla could see nothing and her ears were filled with the grinding rattle of the trucks' progress. The darkness and the side-to-side rhythmic swaying were disorienting so that she could barely tell if she was upright, but she wedged herself against the rear end of the truck, her arms stretched out to either side, hands in firm contact with the cold, dusty walls. The gradient increased, the rhythmic chatter and sway sped up and Teyla felt the wind of their passing reach down into her shelter, stirring up the coal dust and blowing her hair into a tangle. There was a sharp right turn, then a left and then the slope was steeper still so that the train seemed to plummet into the centre of the planet. From behind her there came a series of wild, exhilarated whoops.

oOo

Rodney was damp, hungry and irritable. He was damp because he had helped John shower, which had involved lots of being leant on and trying to pass things with his head averted and his eyes closed. There had also been a fair bit of bad-tempered swearing on both sides, an incident where soapy foam had found its way onto Rodney's forehead and run down to sting his eyes (he was fairly sure it had been deliberate), and the whole shaving debacle, which had involved Sheppard's insistence on being clean-shaven right here and now and Rodney's prediction that he would cut himself and/or fall over. Having narrowly averted both events, Rodney had unfortunately let slip that he and all of the team who weren't John had lunched on delicious crispy battered fish the previous day. His comment, "You can't expect to have all the 'getting shot attention' and not miss a few meals," hadn't gone down well and he had departed under a hail of rapidly weakening abuse, promising to return with sustenance, 'asap'. He wouldn't though, because a combination of post-shower exhaustion and judiciously administered painkiller would, he believed, give him a good few hours’ peace. Or not, thought Rodney as he perched on a barstool mulling over a plate of grey things and a repellently yellow drink of dubious provenance.

"All alone?"

Zanta leant an elbow on the bar next to him, her Eastern-promise scent and assertively alluring bosom both invading Rodney's space.

"As you see," he replied, shortly. Out of the corner of his eye, Rodney observed Zanta's mocking pout and laughing brows.

"Half your team out on an errand and your Colonel languishing in his sickbed; I thought we might steal a little time for ourselves!

"Sheppard doesn't languish," he said, determinedly forcing down one of the spongy grey items. "He just swears then falls asleep."

"But your other two protectors have gone out, haven't they?"

 _Fishing for information_ , thought Rodney. _To pass to... whom?_ Perhaps he might try dangling a little bait of his own. He shrugged, unconcernedly.

"Ronon and Teyla can take care of themselves. Although I suppose in this place, most people need extra protection."

"You're safe enough with me, Dr McKay! I won't let anything bad happen to you!"

"With the implication that something good might?" He turned on his stool to face her directly.

"If you want it to."

"Well, I don't know." Rodney, impatient with fencing, decided to cut to the chase. "I'm quite particular when it comes to who I trust with my life."

"Have I given you any reason to doubt my good faith?" Zanta's playful mockery slipped a little.

"Let's just say I developed a healthy scepticism before I started grade school," snapped Rodney. "And I'm wondering which organ grinder's playing your tune?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean that, grateful though we may be for your help and protection, under whose protection do _you_ fall? Who's keeping you in the luxury to which you've so clearly become accustomed?"

Zanta flinched visibly and colour spread from her cheeks and down over her throat and chest.

"This is my world, Dr McKay, and I've had to make my way in it as best I can. I don't see that it's any business of yours what alliances I may have had to form along the way!"

"Alliances. Really. And what might these alliances entail, exactly?"

"I said it's not your business!"

"It is when the cost of your sheltered life involves spying for your protector, whoever that may be!"

Zanta's flaming colour receded rapidly and her eyes narrowed.

"Spying? So, we come to the heart of the matter! I take it your wounded leader wasn't as sick as he made out last night? Perhaps the accusation works both ways!"

Rodney slumped on his stool and shook his head.

"No. No... this is..." He floundered. "Look, you said this is your world. Well, yes, of course it is, and we're stranded here and you've helped us. And, for the record, Sheppard wasn't trying to spy on you last night! He's a blow-em-up action hero and not so much with the subtleties of espionage."

"But he did hear me on the speaker."

"You admit it then?"

"Admit what? That I'm part of my community? That I have people who make my life easier?"

"Actually, it's just the passing information that I have a problem with!"

"So, I keep a certain party informed! Where's the harm in that?"

"Where's the harm? Where's the harm in information? Information is power! Information brings down governments, wins or loses wars, leads to peace or destruction or a million states in between! Never doubt the importance, the danger of information!"

Rodney's accusing finger vibrated between them. The bar was silent and he felt his heart pounding and sweat prickling on his forehead. He looked into Zanta's eyes and she looked back, with a heated mix of anger, fascination and possibly guilt. Rodney dropped his hand and sat back on his stool, suddenly feeling exposed. Zanta said nothing, but a slight smile flickered over her lips and was gone.

"What? Are you laughing at me? Yes, why not, laugh at the funny doom-saying clown!"

"No!" Her hand was on his arm, her expression open, unguarded. "No, I was just..." She smiled again. "All that intensity, that energy! I was wondering what it'd feel like if you put it to a different use."

"Oh." Rodney swallowed and ran a hand round his collar. "You mean...?"

She nodded. "It's a shame my bed's occupied."

To Rodney's dismay, a nervous giggle escaped. "There's always mine!" he squeaked.

"There is, isn't there?" She slid off her stool.

"Okay, so, we're, um... we're doing this?"

She turned and headed for the stairs, looking over her shoulder to say, "Well I am, and I've heard it's more fun with a friend!"

Rodney jumped off his stool and hurried after her, tripping over a chair and knocking into a table.

"I've heard that too!" he said. "Of course, this doesn't mean I've forgotten the whole information thing!"

"We'll talk about it," she said, with a proprietary hand on the small of his back, "later."

oOo

Ronon crouched in the centre of his truck, legs spread fore and aft, arms out to either side. The truck lurched to the right and he compensated, then it plunged forward and he shifted his weight back to counter the gradient. He ignored the burning in his thighs and kept his knees loose and flexible so that they easily took in the up and down motion. _Sheppard would love this_ , Ronon thought. They'd been surfing together once and that had been great, but Ronon thought riding the mining truck must be a cross between surfing and snowboarding. And the pitch darkness just added an extra thrill. The gradient eased, swerved suddenly to the left and plunged once more.

"Woo hoo!"

He grinned, imagining one of Teyla's eye-rolls coming at him through the darkness. It wasn't quite so dark, though, he thought, as his peripheral vision began to register the flicker of his outstretched hands. The gradient became much more shallow, some of the speed dropped away and suddenly white light burst around him. Ronon stood, fully upright, and saw that the train was out in the open, or as open as it got in this place. They were above street level, and the now familiar narrow alleys and makeshift, scrapheap construction flashed past, lit here by more frequent, brighter street lights.

Ronon looked up at the ironwork passing above him, finding the rhythm of its structure. He crouched, counted, leapt up and grasped with both hands, feeling a stinging smack as they met the metal strut. His legs tucked up and his body curled, he swung wildly with the force of his momentum as the train rumbled beneath. The last truck passed and Ronon dropped and landed lightly on the track. Ahead of him, he saw Teyla do the same and, mindful of Herrick's words, he swiftly vaulted the side barrier and clambered down to ground level. Teyla descended a few metres away. She turned and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Ronon bit his lip hard, but it made no difference; his laughter rang out.

"You look like a taska imp!"

Teyla's eyes narrowed in her coal-blackened face and she strode toward him.

"A taska imp," she stated, as if reciting from a book of Satedan mythology. "A small, messy, dirty creature, said to inhabit abandoned mine workings!"

Ronon wondered whether he should be planning a defensive strategy.

"And you," her accusing finger poked him in the chest, "look like a k'narr goblin!"

Ronon fingered his blackened hair, shrugged and grinned in acknowledgement. "Jinto told me about those guys. Live in fallen tree trunks with their hair camouflaged amongst the roots."

"So it is said," nodded Teyla, seriously. Then she smiled and they both laughed. "Perhaps there is somewhere we could wash," Teyla said. "At least we could use some of the water in our canteens."

"No, leave it, you'll just make it worse. C'mon."

oOo

Teyla tried to resist scratching her scalp; it itched, and her hair felt thick and greasy with coal dust. The dust had penetrated her clothes too, and her skin chafed under her arms where her jacket bunched up beneath her vest.

"What's that noise?" Ronon asked their guide.

"Fans!" This stated with an incredulous sneer at their ignorance. They had come across a group of children playing in the street, or playing above the street would be more accurate, Teyla thought, as their game involved a scrambling, swinging, daredevil chase up and down the sides of the buildings. Asking where they might find those in authority amongst the Venters, one of the gang, a pallid, gangling youth by the name of Talek, had offered to take them, chiefly, it seemed, for the purpose of showing off his local knowledge and bringing them to full awareness of their sadly uneducated status.

"Fans pull the air through, see? That's why things is always blowing about round here. You'll see 'em soon - can't miss 'em really!" he laughed. "'Course there's other fans; up by the factories and down by the mines," he said dismissively, as if these inferior specimens were of little account. "But ours are the biggest, and there's six of 'em!"

The deep, throbbing hum increased and, rounding a corner, Talek stopped and gestured proudly, grinning. The fans were an impressive sight indeed, Teyla thought; set into the rocky wall of the cavern, they towered above their gloomy surroundings, like six gigantic, spinning, four-petalled flowers.

"Stinks," Ronon said, bluntly.

"Yeah, well, that's the run-off, ain't it?" said Talek. He led them to a railing, which guarded a sheer drop to six wide channels, leading toward and beneath the fans. The channels rushed and boiled with a turbulent and pungent mass of water and waste.

"Run-off comes through the drains and out through the tunnels, see? Normally it's pretty tame and just goes beneath the fans, but, I dunno, there must have been a big storm Above, cos, look, it comes up high so the blades are wet!" Talek stood on the bottom rung of the railings, leaning over, his scruffy hair whipped by the strong, steady breeze. Teyla watched the huge blades dipping into the rushing water, turning it into flying streamers of foam. It was fascinating, but she shivered suddenly and looked over her shoulder.

"Something wrong?" Ronon asked.

Teyla shook her head, but scanned the buildings behind her, which were fewer here, and shorter in construction, and overshadowed by the lowering cavern roof. A group of Venters stood around a dismantled sluice-gate mechanism nearer to the fans.

"I am not sure."

"There was bodies washed out the other day and the Venters hooked 'em up before they was chopped to bits by the fans!" Talek informed them, with enjoyment. "Hey, are you here about the bodies?"

"Did you see them?" asked Teyla, without answering his question.

"Yeah, and I wished I hadn't! All naked and bloated and bashed! My Da said someone up Gatewards must've shoved them in the drains, and normally that'd be that! Only there must've been a storm which wash 'em out. Da said."

Ronon had wandered along toward the fans. The group of Venters had dispersed, all but one, and Teyla saw the man beckon to Ronon and point down into the water. She peered over the railings into the frothing maelstrom, but couldn't see what the man had noticed. A shout rose above the churn of the water and the deep hum of the fans, and Teyla looked up to see Ronon struggling, his head and body over the railing, hands clinging on, legs kicking, as the man tried to tip him over.

Teyla ran, bringing up her P90. Ronon would not fall; he was strong. He had moved his body sideways and up, and hit out at his opponent, but then a flicker of light plunged down. Teyla fired. She hit the stranger, definitely; she couldn't miss, not at that range. It made no difference. They were gone.

"Ronon!" She leant far out over the railing. "Ronon!" Teyla searched the turbulent surface, but saw nothing; not a head, not a hand, not a splash that might be made by her teammate, her friend.

"He knifed him! That man! He knifed him and he let go!"

"How do I get down there?" Teyla demanded.

"You don't! I mean, there's no point!" Talek's eyes grew huge and shocked as he looked at the base of the fan where it met the water and Teyla echoed his cry of horror.

"No! Ronon!" But the water, which had briefly frothed red, continue to flow, and the great fans continued to turn regardless.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Miss. He's gone."

Teyla turned and met Talek's shocked, tear-filled eyes. Almost, she gave in. Almost, she dropped to her knees and clung to the half-grown man, who had suddenly reverted to a child; she could give and take comfort and let her bitter tears fall. But, no; she was Teyla Emmagan, of the Athosians and she had grown to maturity alongside the sudden, tearing pain of her own and others' loss. She lifted her chin and drew back her shoulders.

The Venters, alerted by their shouts, had re-emerged from the surrounding buildings. Teyla spoke, her voice strong and clear above the constant roar of water and the beat of the fans.

"Who was that man?"

The Venters looked at each other and heads shook.

"He just turned up," said a woman. "A bit before you and your friend."

"He was not of your clan?"

Heads shook again. "He wanted to know about the bodies. Who they were, if anyone'd looked at them."

"What did you tell him?"

"We don't know who they were. And no-one's seen them or claimed them yet."

Teyla considered. The unknown man's motive in attacking Ronon must surely have been to prevent his seeing the bodies. Why? If they were the missing team, what would be the purpose in preventing their discovery? And if they weren't the missing team? Either way, where there was one attacker, there could be more. Teyla explain her mission to the Venters, whose compassionate gazes she worked hard to return with neutrality, and she soon found herself the centre of a large escort, indignant that violence had occurred on their territory, and protective of one who they had decided to adopt as an honoured guest. One of the women said she would take Talek home, and Teyla thanked him for his help with quiet dignity and pressed a pot of multivitamins into his chilled hands.

Her escort took her to the far end of the row of fans and a man and a woman led her into a small, rock-cut chamber, while the rest waited outside. The chamber was cold and lit by harsh, white electric light. Four shapes lay on the floor, draped with coarse, grey sheeting, and, despite the chill, there was a sickly scent of decay.

"They're not a nice sight, Miss," the woman said. "Are you sure you want to see them?"

"In a moment." Teyla drew a small scanner from her tac vest and looked at the display. There was no signal, which could mean that these were not the team, or simply that their transmitters were missing or damaged. She looked up. "I am ready."

The first sheet was lifted and folded back. Teyla detached herself from her normal human instincts of revulsion and horror and studied the corpse with cold, dispassionate eyes. This was no dried-up, Wraith-fed husk, nor yet the lovingly tended remains of a family member. Or close friend. Teyla closed her eyes, swallowed and narrowed the focus of her mind to the task she must perform. The body had been in water for several days. The water had been warm and, apparently inhabited by small, carnivorous creatures. There was also extensive damage caused by the body's travelling through narrow pipes, forced by the rise of flood water. It had been a woman, and Teyla knelt by her side, her hand hovering over the ravaged face, and spoke the brief words of an Athosian funeral benediction.  
This could not have been either Helen Franks or Erin Bell. The frame was small and fine boned; not a member of the military. Teyla drew the sheet back over her and moved to the next in line. It had been a man, and she knew that, even allowing for discolouration, his skin could never have been black. She looked for more clues and realised that the body had neither Dr Griffin's height nor, as far as she could tell, his receding hairline. She uttered her ritual words and moved on. The next, also a man, had been much older, the remaining skin more distorted and damaged, the ragged threads of hair grey. She prayed for his peace and replaced the sheet.

"You might want to leave the last one. Got caught in the fans before we got a hold on it."

Teyla nodded her acknowledgement, lifted a corner of the sheet and immediately lowered it gently back down again. She wished the covered form 'sweet peace at the end of life's journey,' and then stood slowly and faced her guides, who huddled, close together, watching her with solemn, sorrowful faces.

"These people were not my friends."


	7. Chapter 7

A sigh, a stretch, and Zanta rolled languidly over to face him. She idly ran the tip of one finger over his profile, catching slightly on his lower lip.

"You really are a scientist, aren't you?" she drawled. "I've never felt quite so thoroughly... investigated."

"Yes, well, you know, I'm all about the rigorous application of scientific method!" His hands twitched as if they wanted to flap enthusiastically, but didn't have the energy.

"Rigorous?"

"And vigorous. Vigorously rigorous. Or the other way round." He frowned slightly and turned his head to face her, the rest of his body preferring to stay heavily motionless. "It was good, though? You did like being investigated?"

She smiled a slow, satiated smile.

"Oh, yes!"

Rodney thought about asking for marks out of ten, and additional comments for each of the categories on his mental checklist, but decided her brief accolade was sufficient.

"And the...?" He rubbed a thumb and forefinger together and looked at her questioningly.

"Very slippery. Very tingly."

"Yes, that's the caffeine. Because you can get caffeine shampoo for... well, never mind about that! So, I thought, by natural extension, caffeine lube might... er... stimulate certain, er..."

"It did. So you can tick that box."

Rodney grinned fleetingly at her joke, wondering if she realised that there did exist an actual box to be ticked, in a certain file on his laptop. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, flitting here and there over his varied experiences as an intergalactic explorer, and finding that many of them compared unfavourably with his most recent mission to explore the newly-charted territory laid out in panoramic splendor by his side. He wondered if, over the years, he should have devoted a larger proportion of his time and intellect to such voyages of discovery, but concluded firstly that most of the attractive women he had encountered had been irresistibly drawn, like opposite poles, to John or Ronon rather than himself, secondly, that when an opportunity had arisen, he had usually messed it up through awkwardness, embarrassment and/or general cluelessness, and thirdly, that he and the entire Atlantis expedition at the very least, would certainly be dead by now if he'd devoted even a very few extra percentage points of his time and intellect to lighter pursuits. His second conclusion was interesting though, in that, in Zanta's case, it didn't seem to apply.

"You're a catalyst," he said, aloud.

"I'm a what?"

"A catalyst." He leant up on one elbow and looked down at her. "Normally, I don't get very far with women. I struggle with the early stages, where you're supposed to be able to do small talk and be casually cool; the kind of thing that Sheppard's so good at. But with you, I don't seem to need so much activation energy to get the whole reaction started, and after that I'm exothermic all the way!"

"I'll take your word for it," she said, laughing. "But if it's casually cool you're going for, that hat of yours does the job!"

"Oh." He flopped back down on the bed. "I think I lost it. Yesterday. When I was running for my life. It wasn't a hat-friendly situation."

"That's a shame. You looked good in it."

"Good enough to eat?"

"Apparently so," she smirked.

"I'd better get another, then. Soon."

Zanta's fingers trailed slowly over his chest, her eyes following them, thoughtfully.

"I think I should tell you," she said, hesitantly. "Perhaps I should've told you before."

"Told me what?" He had felt his eyelids growing heavy with drowsiness, but her halting words cleared away the fog.

"Who I was talking to on the speaker. Who I am... allied with."

"Well," he yawned. "I assumed it was Breckna."

"You know? How do you know?" She sat up, and pulled the sheet up to cover herself.

"Like I said, I assumed!" Rodney sat up, suddenly feeling vulnerable, and made a grab for his own sheet, thankful that they each had one, from where they pushed the two beds together in his small room; a tug of war would have been undignified. "The other big cheese, Kevlar, or whatever his name is..."

"Kethron, the Getter chief."

"Yes, him. He's out of the picture, and I don't see any particular presence of the other clans round here, unless you count the miners, and, you know, I think I would have noticed the coal dust!" He looked at her pointedly.

"What are you implying?"

"You know what I'm implying! Breckna told us as much himself, anyway!"

"He what? He told you?"

"He said he was with 'a certain lady' the evening our team was kidnapped. You don't have to _cherchez_ very far to find the most likely _femme_!"

"I'm surprised you weren't put off!" she said, venomously. "If you believe I'm another man's property! Or is that part of the challenge?"

"Don't be ridiculous! Unless you've granted him exclusive rights?"

"No! Nobody owns me!"

"Don't they? All this is what, then? Payment for services rendered? Because I think Breckna takes a different view!"

"So, either I'm a high-class whore or some kind of slave? Nice assessment, Dr McKay! Very nice!"

"So, what then?" he sneered. "Just good friends?"

"Yes! Yes we are! I treat him well and he looks after me! It's a mutually beneficial arrangement!"

"Says you!"

"Yes, I say it! And it's none of your business anyway!"

"And again, _I_ say, yes it is! As long as everything we do gets reported, it is!" Rodney got up and began scrambling into his clothes; his pants were inside out and he couldn't find his t-shirt.

"What am I supposed to do?" the suppressed pain in her voice stopped him and he turned around and looked at her, still sitting tangled in the sheets. "What are my options here, tell me? To scratch a living, somewhere out there in the dark? To only buy the cheap food and feel my bones start to crumble? To have babies who'll suffer the same fate, and that's if they're not stillborn? Tell me how I should live a better life!"

Rodney sat down on the bed again. He stared at the floorboards and the mat made of scraps of old fabric.

"I didn't mean to judge."

"Yes, you did."

He shrugged acknowledgement. "Yes, I did. I do, all the time." He smiled, ruefully. "Lives often depend on my snap judgements."

"And I'm guessing you're right pretty often."

"Of course!"

"And arrogant?"

"Well, no, I don't think so, because the definition of arrogance is having an exaggerated sense of one's own importance or abilities, and I don't. Exaggerate, that is."

"Dr Save-the-world McKay!"

"Worlds plural. Galaxies, even, wouldn't be too far-fetched."

"Not so hot on human lives and relationships, though?"

"Even I can't be good at everything." They were silent, and Rodney wondered if they should just have skipped the post-coital conversation and quit while they were ahead. "Maybe we can help," he said, finally. "We find our missing team, get the Gate working; maybe we can trade, make life better here."

"I hope so," she said, her voice belying her words.

They were silent once more.

"I should check on Sheppard," said Rodney. "I said I'd take him breakfast."

"It's well past lunchtime."

"Oh."

"Go on, go and tend to your irate Colonel."

oOo

Rodney had not come back and John had no idea where his clothes were. He'd woken feeling not too bad, all things considered, but this fleeting sense of well-being was rapidly followed by ravenous hunger, coupled with the sinking remembrance of Ronon and Teyla's grim errand and the Gate's sabotage. The backward progress of the mission felt all too significant today, after last night's pain and drug-induced feelings of irresponsibility, and John fumed where he lay, unable to make any useful contribution to the search for the missing team or the Gate crystals or even his own pants, dammit!

He held his left arm immobile with the right and swung his legs out of bed, sat and watched the walls swim for a moment and then stood up, staggered across the room and shouldered open the door to Zanta's lounge. He flapped at the wall for a light switch, hissing sharply as he let go of his injured arm. He found the switch. A tasteful boudoir in pale green and pink was revealed and John sneered bad-temperedly at the cushioned opulence. There was a garish robe hanging on the back of the door. He'd put it on, head down to the bar and order some food. And a beer. And punch anyone who laughed at his attire. This highly optimistic, but satisfying plan was derailed by Rodney's arrival.

He bounced through the door, his cheeks reddened from guilt or strenuous activity, or possibly both.

"Oh. Ha! You're up!"

"Yes, I'm up! Up, because I'm starving, but not dressed because I can't find my damn clothes!"

Rodney had the gall to laugh. "Well aren't we Colonel Pouty-face this morning? Get out of bed the wrong side?"

John hastily adjusted his lower lip, even though he was sure his expression had been thunderously frowning disapproval and definitely not 'pouty'. "It's not morning, McKay, it's afternoon! Which is another reason why I'm starving!"

"Alright, alright, keep your pants on!"

"I would if I could find them!"

Rodney bustled through to the bedroom and open a cupboard.

"Voilà! Your pack and all its varied contents!" He began pulling out items and throwing them onto the bed. "Pants, shirt, C4... no, don't need that. There! A complete outfit for the fashionable colonel!"

John, leaning against the door frame regarded him with narrowed eyes. "What've you been up to, McKay?"

"Nothing! Just absorbing the local culture!" Rodney pulled at the hem of his t-shirt, smoothing it down; it was on back-to-front.

"Oh, culture. That's what you're calling it!"

"Okay, I've been with Zanta! So? It's nothing you haven't done I don't know how many times!"

"No, you don't know how many times! And it's not as many as you think."

Rodney held out a hand, fingers spread, and prepared to count. "Well, let's see, shall we? There was that time..."

"Can it, McKay!" John sat down heavily on the bed. "I'm freezing my ass off here, can you give me a hand?" He plucked half-heartedly at his clothes.

"It's not cold in here, Sheppard."

"It is without clothes. And food."

"Yes, my fault, I know!" He picked up John's t-shirt. "Seriously, this room's like an oven. You probably have a fever again. You should go back to bed! It's been less than a day since you were shot!"

"Days are longer here," said John, from inside the t-shirt. "Ow, dammit Rodney, be careful!"

"Just put your head through! They're not that much longer."

"Is that how you put a shirt on? Oh, wait, no, you put yours on back-to-front!"

"What?" Rodney tugged at his collar and squinted down at it. "Oh. How did that happen?" He half pulled it off, turned it around his neck and shoved his arms back in.

"I don't know, maybe you were distracted? How long are the days here? This one seems to be going on forever." John pulled his wounded arm closer to his body and closed his eyes.

"Twenty-eight hours thirty six minutes. Are you stepping into these sometime today, or am I using them as a prop for a dramatic scene?"

"What? Oh, pants. Yeah, sure."

"Whoa, you shouldn't be on your feet!"

"I'm fine."

"Yes, fine as long as there's a convenient scientist to lean against! Sit down!"

John felt himself guided to the head of the bed and manhandled until he was sitting against the headboard, propped up by pillows.

"Better?"

"Yeah." John ignored his spinning head and throbbing arm. "We need to find those Gate crystals."

"And by we, you mean me," replied Rodney, waving one of John's socks. "You're not going anywhere!"

"I hate this!"

"I don't particularly enjoy it. How is it so difficult to put socks on someone else?"

"I should be out there, getting the job done!"

"Well, that's the price you pay for saving scientists from certain death!"

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that."

"What, regretting the life-saving?"

John ignored him. "They were pretty bad shots."

"They got you!"

"No. They had plenty of chances. Coulda taken us both out when we were out in the open, not given us a chance to run."

"Comforting."

"Think about it, McKay! There were two of them, they coulda had us!"

"Yes, I suppose. So?"

"So, either they were just trying to scare us off, or they wanted to implicate someone else."

Rodney crouched on the floor and began tidying up the strewn contents of John's pack.

"Zanta reports to Breckna," he said, abruptly.

"On her direct line. Thought so. How did you find out?"

"She told me."

Before they could discuss this further, Zanta came in, carrying a tray, which she set down on the nightstand. She and Rodney spoke, but John's attention was all on the savoury scent that rose from the tray, and he heard nothing until he had swallowed several welcome mouthfuls from the mug of soup she put into his hand.

"Sheppard?"

"Hm?"

"I said I'm going to go and have a few words with Brant. We need to track down those crystals."

"It's too dangerous!"

"Dennet can go with him," Zanta said.

John took another mouthful of soup, but said nothing.

"You eat my food yet you still don't trust me?"

"I don't trust Breckna."

"Mr Breckna is a man of honour!"

John scowled, aware that honour was a flexible concept to many.

"Look, I'm going, Sheppard, and I'm sure I'll be perfectly safe with my gorilla entourage. Anyway, I lost my hat and I need a new one!" He and Zanta shared a suggestive smirk and John rolled his eyes.

"So, um... I should probably move rooms. Get out of your way."

John enjoyed Rodney's fish-like gaping.

"Oh, that won't be necessary, Colonel!" Zanta insisted.

"I think it might."

"You'll be much more comfortable here!"

"No, I'll move. Can't have you sleeping on the couch, can we?"

oOo

Teyla sat in the dark once more, in the corner of an empty truck, her arms around her drawn-up knees, her head bowed. The truck vibrated around her, its rolling progress slow, drawn ponderously higher by who knew what mechanism, taking her away from the fans and the Venters, and the dead, both known and unknown, those unfamiliar faces that she had prayed over, and the one, engraved on her heart, who was gone too suddenly for any kind of farewell. The train groaned, metal screeching against metal, crying out its mournful song against the dragging weight of coal, and Teyla bit back her own mourning cry. Her eyes stung with grit and salt, and her throat ached with rasping dryness and bitter grief.

At last her hands were sickly grey before her in the flat orange light of the Gate levels. the train halted and shouts and the thunderous noise of tipping coal bombarded her unresponsive ears. She climbed out, ignored curious eyes and questions, and slipped out of the depot and into the half-lit streets, to pass between dark figures, pale faces hidden beneath hats drawn low. She coughed in the muggy air, sweat mingling in her hair with drops of rusty rain, and her breath hitched at a glow of clear blue amid the haze and drifting clouds of steam. John would be there and Rodney, and she would have to tell them. The light beckoned and repelled; comfort for herself and grief for her friends. She allowed the beacon to pull her forward and passed beneath it, down the steps and in through the swinging doors.

oOo

John sat at a table, his back to his foe, an empty bowl before him, and a plate, with two remaining lumps of the rubbery grey stuff that passed for bread. He had come downstairs because he was still hungry and didn't fancy struggling, one-handed with the MRE packets. The food sat heavily inside him, all its energy directed to healing and the urge to sleep. The enemy would have to be faced, however; this simple battle to climb the stairs the challenge that stood between him and horizontal comfort.

Ronon and Teyla would have seen them by now; the bodies of friends or strangers. They'd be on their way back; they'd better be on their way back. All that way down, to the far reaches of the underground world, and John sat here, in a well-lit bar, afraid of falling on his face on a flight of stairs. He glanced up at the entrance and recognised the rounded hats of a couple of Makers, deep in discussion, pale, expressive hands waving. McKay should be back by now. He'd probably got hungry and stopped at a street stall. His sharp eyes and sharper nose would have picked out something oily and crunchy and he would be stuffing his face, grease running down his chin, and not being pursued by hidden sharpshooters, not bleeding out on a rusting metal surface, his life mingling with the constantly seeping groundwater.

John stood, his right hand steadying his left arm in its sling. He waited out a surge of dizziness and, as his fuzzy vision cleared, he saw Teyla, crossing the bar toward him. His lips began a smile, but then faltered. She was alone. Her eyes stood out starkly in her coal-stained face, and pale, vertical trails had been rubbed and smeared across her cheeks. She stood before him and he looked down into her bleak eyes; she was small, where normally her calm self-assurance gained her height at least the equal of his.

"Ronon?"

Her lips pressed tightly together, but she didn't speak. It wasn't real; moments like this never were. His heart beat fast and light, his throat closed, his fingers twitched for a weapon, his legs tensed to run. But there was only this moment, this barely-known fact, this coming grief that was not yet acknowledged as his for his friend. She leant forward and he, reluctantly, did the same, the action of mutual comfort, mutual sorrow, sealing this point in time, marking then and now and the future as separate, as here and then gone, as loved, then lost, alive, then dead.

Her left hand caught his right and they led each other toward the stairs, toward privacy and a small space where he would have to learn the facts, make the hard decisions, carry on and carry on, as the living always did.

oOo

"Then he could be alive?"

"I do not see how."

"But, maybe he got through." John shifted his position against the headboard, and Teyla picked up a discarded pillow from the floor and pushed it behind his shoulder. "Thanks. He coulda got through! C'mon, Teyla, this is Ronon we're talking about - the ultimate survivor!"

Teyla sat down wearily on the other bed, her shoulders sagging, her skin still itchy with dirt. She looked up into the pale, concerned face of her team leader; his eyes pleaded with her to allow Ronon a chance at life. "It's not like you to lose faith!" he said.

"You are right, John," she admitted. "Perhaps it is this place; never seeing the sky or the sun or the stars. And those fans were huge, powerful, as if nothing could stop them. I do not know why I am so disturbed. It is not as if I haven't seen sudden death before, many, many times."

She felt a tentative pat on her shoulder and her lip trembled at John's characteristically awkward attempt at comfort.

"Cut yourself some slack, Teyla. Ronon was, is, team. You know, like family. And you had to go'n sort through a pile of corpses. That'd freak anyone out! Good thing McKay wasn't with you. We'd a had to scrape him off the ceiling!"

A desperate laugh rose in her throat and shook loose a tear that followed the worn tracks down her cheek.

"I wish he had been there. And you. Then Ronon would still be alive."

"Stop! Don't blame yourself for this! Yeah, I could say, 'Not on my watch,' but stuff happens sometimes." John attempted to sit up a little straighter. "Now, tell me about the dead guys. You're sure none of them were ours?"

"It is possible the fourth could have been one of the missing team. I could not tell because the fan blades..."

"Yeah, moving on. So, a woman and two men and one unidentified."

"Yes. The woman was not old; she was well-nourished by the standards of this world, in that her limbs were straight. As were the two men."

"And one of the men was quite old?"

"Yes, but still strong, I think."

"Did they drown?"

"The older man certainly did not. He was killed by a single gunshot to the side of his head. It was partly hidden by later damage, but obvious if one is familiar with such things."

"Close range?"

"It was difficult to tell, but yes, I think so."

John ran his fingers up and down the edge of his sling and sucked in his lower lip, his eyes roaming abstractedly over the bed.

"Do you think the man was executed, John?"

"Sounds like it. Which makes me wonder."

"The Getter chief and his family?"

"They fit the brief, don't they? The chief himself executed, his wife, son and one other."

Teyla shook her head. "This leads us no nearer our missing team. And it does not explain why Ronon was attacked."

"Has to be to stop him seeing the bodies. And I'm betting they would've stopped you both if they could. Whoever killed them musta thought they were safely got rid of in the drains and then heard they'd been washed out."

"This must be a clan war, then. And our team became involved."

"Seems like it." John massaged his forehead, his fingers moving up and down from the bridge of his nose.

"You are tired, John. You should rest."

He huffed a small laugh. "You too. You'd better see if you can get some of that dirt off."

"I will be glad to," she said, standing up and stretching out her stiff muscles; a hot shower would be very welcome. John reached out suddenly and she took his hand.

"Don't lose faith, Teyla. He's out there. He'll come back to us."

He squeezed her hand, then released her. She smiled, sadly, trying to hope.

The door banged open and Rodney flung several damp, misshapen hats onto John's bed.

"He's dead," Rodney snapped, his jaw tight, his chin tilting up to ward off his fear.

"We don't know that..." John began.

"Shot! Bullet through the brain!" He mimed the act with one hand, his face grey, his throat working convulsively.

"Brant," Teyla said, her fingers tightening on the blankets beneath her.

"Yes, of course Brant! Why, who did...?" Rodney froze. "Where's Ronon?"


	8. Chapter 8

_Clinging to the debris of the stream bed, his lungs straining, Ronon could hear the beat of the fans. He had no time to think who, or why, or even what had become of his attacker. He concentrated furiously, knowing his time was short and his chance slim; beat, beat, beat, like the flash of the railtrucks before he jumped. Beat, beat, beat: he let go. The current took him, and there was battering noise and churning froth and a heavy blow to his left thigh, then, from brown murkiness, he plunged into black. He fought and kicked and gasped in a lungful of air, but his next mouthful was water and he choked and thrashed, realised he was falling, filled his lungs once more with air, and then gasped in shock, inhaling more water, this time icy cold. He felt himself forced down by a pummelling, thrusting weight and Ronon fought; he fought hard, and he kept fighting and felt no pain, even though his left leg and right arm wouldn't respond as they should. Over and over he tumbled in the churning current until suddenly his head was above water and he heaved in great gasping breaths of freezing air. The powerful flow took him, on and on into darkness; he could see nothing, and his numbness and exhaustion tricked his senses so that he felt motionless, suspended in a void. He tried to feel the current and swim with it, but his limbs were heavy and dragging, so he focussed on staying afloat, keeping his mouth and nose out of the water._

_Then, at last, he could see: grey, indeterminate points and highlights at first, faint, silvery outlines of rocky walls and shimmering water, then glaring brightness that became stronger and more luminous and impossibly brighter, until he screwed his eyes shut in pain._

_His feet dragged and he lifted them up. They dragged again and he felt, not harsh, skin-tearing rock, but soft, forgiving sand. The current slackened. His legs grounded again; he thrust down and his body surged out of the water. He fell, weak with cold and exhaustion, but he tried again, pushing himself out of the clinging current, opening his eyes a tiny crack and squinting at the blinding yellow-white expanse, as he forced his legs forward; wading, thigh-deep, calf-deep, ankle-deep._

_Ronon collapsed. He lay on his back, unable to move, drained and heavy with shock, weary to his bones. And now he felt his pain; pain in his thigh and his arm and a multitude of bruises. But, slowly, with a heartfelt, soulfelt sense of rightness, a smile spread across his face; the smile became a grin and the grin became a laugh. Because, beneath his battered frame there was warm, welcoming sand, and on his chilled skin was the heat of life-giving rays, and his eyes, tight shut after days of twilit, half-lit gloom, would soon open to a world bathed in sunlight. So Ronon lay and laughed, and was filled with thankfulness for the wonders of his life._

He smiled again as he poked at his fire with a bit of driftwood, stirring up the flames, watching sparks drift into the clear night sky; the sky, filled with stars, a small crescent moon high above and a larger one, rising out over the ocean. To be buried beneath rock, trapped in the darkness, that was no life for anyone, and certainly not for Ronon.

Teyla would think him dead, his body destroyed and washed away. She'd have told Sheppard and McKay and maybe they'd believe it, maybe they wouldn't; there wasn't a lot they could do either way. They'd hope, they'd grieve, because they were team, because they were family.

If his team were here, McKay would be describing s'mores and bananas stuffed with chocolate and other campfire treats, Teyla would smile gently, while studying abstract shapes in the flames, and Sheppard would be lying on his back, head resting on his hands, watching the stars and dreaming about flight.

Ronon poked the fire again, threw on a couple more sticks, and edged closer. Driftwood burnt hot, fierce and quick, and his back felt cold while his face was near scorching. He put on a thicker branch, picked up in the woodlands behind the beach, and lay down on the soft sand, sheltered in the hollow of grass-topped dunes. He'd get back to them, to his team. There were ways down into the city and he'd find them. The vents probably weren't an option; there'd be poison gas and fumes or whatever, but he'd find caves, passages, the ways the Getters used.

His leg throbbed and he sat up and peeled back the poultice of bashed-up leaves and roots. It looked okay, even though it was badly bruised, with a broad, ugly scrape. It had been a glancing blow from the fan blade - anything more and he'd have lost a leg. The wound would slow him down, but its broadness made it easier to clean and he knew the plants, common to many worlds, which would draw out infection; the types that grew here, on the seashore, and the different ones he'd find further inland. The knife wound in his bicep could be more of a problem. It wasn't as painful and was a simple stab, with no twisting or tearing, but it was deep, and deep, narrow wounds tended to trap dirt inside. He'd done what he could for now, though, and survival was about doing what you could do at the time.

He'd get back to his team, no matter the obstacles; he'd just keep going and keep going and somehow he'd to do it. McKay was right, though; s'mores would have been pretty nice.

oOo

Everybody was annoyed with Rodney, and that simple word 'annoyed' encompassed a whole spectrum of irritation, from mildly pissed to incandescent with rage. Zanta was right up there at the extreme end, because they knew she'd told Breckna about their eyewitness to the kidnapping and now Brant was dead. "Do the math!" he'd spat, and she'd done the math and thrown it back in his face with a hefty shovelful of bitter sarcasm and white-hot fury. Teyla was openly displeased, which actually amounted to a whole lot more with Teyla; but he'd had to ask, hadn't he? Because how many revolutions per minute was important when you didn't want your friend to have been chopped into mincemeat. So he'd wanted details - how big were the blades, how many, how fast, did they appear blurred? And then she'd fixed him with one of those 'stern disapproval' looks and John had snapped, 'Leave it, Rodney!' So that had completed the set of people who were thoroughly, moderately or mildly pissed at Dr M R McKay.

Rodney shifted restlessly and his piled sleeping bags rustled. Above him, John turned over, groaning. He listened for Teyla's breathing: determinedly deep and even, meditating her way toward sleep.

"I'm sorry, Teyla."

Soft, blankety noises as she turned toward him. "I am sorry too, Rodney. You were trying to help, I know." He felt a touch on his shoulder as she reached down to him in his narrow space between the beds. "The fan blades were not blurred."

"Oh. Then maybe..."

"He's out there, somewhere," said John, his voice rasping with tiredness.

"And we can find out what's behind the fans, where it goes..."

"In the morning, Rodney!"

"Yes. Of course. Sleep." He shuffled back down in the sleeping bags and closed his eyes. Teyla's breathing evened out again; a long, slow in and a long, slow out. John twitched, shifted, his breath hitched. "Except none of us are sleeping, are we?" Rodney reached up and flailed around the nightstand, knocking over the lamp, righting it and switching it on. John grunted and buried his face in the blankets. Teyla shaded her eyes and blinked at Rodney.

"Anyone hungry?"

A negative grumble came from beneath John's blankets.

"I am, a little," Teyla said.

Rodney sat up, searched beneath the head of his sleeping bags and drew out some energy bars. He gave one to Teyla and propped himself up to sit cross-legged against the side of her bed, tearing his wrapper open.

"You sure you don't want one, Sheppard?"

A corner of the blankets flipped back.

"Yeah, okay, why not. I'm not getting to sleep any time soon." John sat up carefully and leant back against the headboard with a wince.

"When did you last have a pain pill?" Rodney asked, handing him an opened energy bar.

John scowled taking the bar with a grunt of thanks.

"John has refused to take Zanta's pills," Teyla said, disapprovingly.

"They make me loopy!"

"So?" said Rodney. "We could all do with some entertainment!"

"Rodney! That is not helping!"

"Seriously, Sheppard, take the pills. What difference does it make if you're loopy overnight? Or are you afraid that you'll imagine boogeymen creeping up on you? Because it'll only be Teyla going to the bathroom!"

"Boogeymen!" John snorted, scornfully.

"Hmm, I suppose your drug-induced imaginings might be a little worse than an average childhood nightmare."

"Yeah, boogeymen can dance round me in a ring wearing tutus!"

There should have been a deep-chested rumble of laughter and for a moment Rodney thought his energy bar was on its way up again. "So tomorrow, or today rather, what's our action plan? Missing Ronon, missing team, missing Gate crystals; where do we start?"

John crumpled his wrapper and half-heartedly aimed it at Rodney; it rolled under the bed. "You two go to the Getter house, find out if they know about the bodies, see if you can shake that Hanto guy for more intel. Talk to the other servants, anyone. Bribe, threaten; we need to know what's going on around here."

"Shall we visit Breckna as well?" asked Teyla.

"No. No, leave him alone." John rubbed his left shoulder and eased his arm, with a frown. "I was thinking we might have a look round his place later on."

"What, break in? And by 'we', you mean 'we'?" Rodney gestured between himself and Teyla.

"Is that wise, John? It will be guarded well!"

"C'mon, Teyla, you can get round any guards. We need to know what this guy's up to!"

"And we need the Gate crystals," Rodney added. "What about Ronon?"

"I'll deal with that."

oOo

"Probably have to hammer on the door for half an hour before we get an answer. Or not!"

The Getter Clan House was busy; groups entering and groups leaving, knots of men and women talking earnestly before dispersing into the dark streets. The maid, Yashna, stood at the door.

"What's happening here?" Rodney asked.

"Oh, Sir! The young Master's returned!"

"What? The son? I thought he was dead!"

The girl's face crumpled and she began to sob into a handkerchief.

"Oh God, I'm not dealing with this! Teyla!"

"You said the young Master has returned?" Teyla asked. "Jerret Kethron is alive? Is that right?"

"Yes, Miss, but they're saying Master Galta and my mistress are dead." Tears continued to roll down her face. "My poor lady, that was always so kind and so pretty!"

"You didn't seem that upset last time we were here," Rodney pointed out.

The girl fixed him with an angry glare. "I loved my mistress!"

"No doubt you were her most loyal servant!" said Rodney, dryly.

"That I was, Sir, to be sure!"

"Perhaps we may speak to Master Jerret?" Teyla suggested.

"Yes, I'm sure loyal servants shouldn't keep guests hanging around on the doorstep."

Yashna drew herself up with a haughty glare. "I don't know as if he's receiving, but I'll find out. Please come this way!" She walked ahead of them with great dignity and the occasional congested sniff, and showed them into a small antechamber.

"Rodney, please, if you cannot be polite, let me speak for both of us!"

"Politeness is over-rated."

"Nevertheless, you must try! We must find out how this man is still alive. He may have much to tell!"

Rodney grunted an acknowledgement. The maid returned.

"The Master will see you."

"Honoured, I'm sure!"

"Rodney!"

They were shown up a flight of stairs with carved wooden bannisters and thick carpet, and then into a large bedchamber, well-lit from gold wall-sconces and a real fire in a marble surround. Rodney's jaw tightened; the old hat-seller had lived, and died in a filthy doorway.

The occupant of the bed had a large bandage wrapped around his head, but his shadowed eyes were sharply assessing in his youthful face.

"Miss Emmagan! Dr McKay! I am glad to meet more of our friends from Atlantis. I only wish it were under happier circumstances."

"What? Do you know what happened to our team? Are they dead?"

Jerret shook his head at Rodney's peremptory demands. "I am sorry, I don't know. I was referring to the deaths of my honoured father and mother."

"I am sorry for your loss," said Teyla. "We would be very interested to learn how this happened."

"Yes, of course. Please, sit. That evening, that dreadful evening, a family meeting was held - just the usual business, you understand - and two of our men arrived, bringing with them your team members. Major Jordan and Sergeant Bell, do I have that right? Yes. We talked and learnt of their mission to seek trade and allies, but Major Jordan expressed an interest in meeting other local business leaders, and so I directed him to the Maker Clan. They left the house with that in mind, but, I'm sorry, I don't know if they contacted the Makers. And now I am told they are missing together with two others?"

"Sadly, yes," said Teyla. "We were sent to this world to find them."

"And also to seek allies and trade, as was your original intent?"

"Well, I suppose that depends on whether we get our team back and what condition they're in!" said Rodney. "What happened after Jordan and Bell left?"

"The meeting proceeded late into the night," said Jerret. He stopped and placed a hand on his brow, his eyes closed. "And then we were invaded! Attacked in our own home! My father... my father was killed in front of me and I, to my shame, I ran. I ran and was pursued. Relentless, murderous pursuit, high into the upper levels of the city and into the cave network above. At last I eluded them, but fell and hit my head and did not regain my full senses until last night, when I finally made my way home. And now I learn that my mother was killed too, while I ran, too scared to defend her."

"You would probably be dead too if you had stayed," said Teyla. "I do not want to distress you, but I saw their bodies. I blessed their passing, after the manner of my people."

"Thank you."

"There were two others with them," Teyla prompted.

"Mened and Angaray, that brought your compatriots to us, although my people tell me that only Mened was identifiable. Such an awful fate!"

"I don't expect they minded at that point," Rodney mumbled.

Teyla shot him a glare. "Could you identify your attackers?"

"Yes. Yes, Makers, every one!"

"You are sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! And I'm sure they are going to pay! Breckna's been after our territory for years, wanting to go Above and off-world to Get for himself, but he's gone too far. You see that, don't you? You won't want to be allies with the likes of him, will you? The Getters will be much better partners! Especially if you can help us stabilise the situation here." He leant forward eagerly.

"Stabilise? What does that mean?" said Rodney sharply.

"Just that the world Above has great resources, and that to take advantage of them you would need to help us to suppress any dissenting factions."

"We do not usually involve ourselves in political situations," said Teyla, firmly.

"But Breckna has to go. He killed my father! And my mother!"

"Our leader, Dr Elizabeth Weir, is a great diplomat. I am sure she would be very glad to set up some kind of mediation."

Jerret subsided against his bank of pillows, a red spot of colour high on each cheek.

"You superior, Colonel Sheppard? Colonel is a high rank, is it not? Why did he not come today? Perhaps he would have a different view!"

Rodney bristled at being considered John's subordinate, but Teyla replied, "Colonel Sheppard was wounded in an attack."

"An attack? By whom?"

"We do not know."

"The Makers, no doubt! You see why they must be stopped! Was he badly hurt?"

"He was shot in the arm," said Rodney, impatiently. "And his views would be the same as ours. We avoid interfering in off-world politics."

Jerret plucked irritably at the bedspread. "I am tired now. You should go," he said, weakly.

"Of course. We hope you recover from your ordeal soon."

A hand waved dismissal and they were ushered out by the once again tearful Yashna, snivelling about her 'poor mistress'. Teyla attempted to comfort her, to no avail. "And me sure to have been chosen to nurse the little one when it arrived!"

Outside, Rodney said, "What do you think?"

"I think he is a man of ambition."

"I think he's a coward, running off and hiding. I bet he didn't hit his head at all, just too scared to come out of the hole he'd tucked himself into."

Teyla looked troubled. "If what he says is true, he has a legitimate grievance. To be attacked in one's own home..."

"If what he says is true. We've only his word to go on."

oOo

"Ronon's outside, on the surface." John met Teyla's eyes and then Rodney's and ignored the reflected doubt. "He got through, and that guy Friegar said the drain meets up with a river. Rivers always come to the sea eventually."

"Yes." Rodney agreed, hesitantly. "Okay, yes, let's say he made it."

"He did!"

"Yes, okay, trying to be positive, here! Where does that leave us?"

"It leaves us still needing the Gate crystals, so we can get help from Atlantis, organise S and R, divert the Daedalus."

"Which is still, what, a week out from Pegasus?"

John thumped his fist on the table. "Stop seeing negatives, McKay! We need to focus on what we can do!" John's arm twinged and he felt a headache building behind his eyes. "Sorry. I'm frustrated, I guess."

"That is understandable, John." Teyla poured him some more tea, adding several pinches of sweetener.

"Thanks, Teyla."

"I think you're right, Sheppard. We should raid the Maker joint!" said Rodney.

"I didn't say anything about a raid!"

"Okay, a break-in, then!" conceded Rodney. "Look, I'm not sure if I believe that Jerret character and I'm not about to suggest we take his side in some petty clan war, but there's too much evidence that points to the Makers to just ignore it!"

"Alsa said she thought Makers kidnapped Dr Griffin and Captain Franks," said Teyla. "And the last known location of Major Jordan and Sergeant Bell was the Maker factory."

"Jerret says Makers attacked him, and we were attacked on our way back from their place," John added.

"And Zanta tells her boyfriend about our eyewitness and Brant pays the price! Plus the fact that their snacks are really bad!" said Rodney. "I just think that should be taken into consideration!"

"And I think you don't know this world as well as you think you do!"

Zanta stood behind Rodney's chair and he screwed around to face her, his expression half guilt, half defiance.

"You're right, Zanta," John said. "We're on the back foot, here, but we have to do what we can to find our missing team, and now Ronon too."

"And our evidence points to the Makers!" said Rodney.

"You search hard enough, you'll dig up dirt on any of the Clans!" said Zanta. "They all squabble with each other and amongst themselves. They always have! And the Makers have never been the worst for that! There's plenty of rumours about the Getters, if you listen in the right places!"

"Yes, you probably start them on Breckna's orders!" snapped Rodney.

"Believe what you like, Dr McKay! I'm just trying to help you, because we need your help."

"I thought you were happy with the whole forgotten world deal!"

"Maybe I was wrong about that. I can admit it when I'm wrong, you know!" She glared at Rodney. "I've been thinking maybe our secrecy comes at too high a price, and that price is being paid by the ordinary folk round here. So, say what you like to me, I'm going to get these people what they need!" She stalked up the stairs and slammed her office door.

"Nicely handled, McKay." John smirked.

"She is a strong woman," said Teyla.

"Yes, she is." Rodney's mouth drooped unhappily.

"Cheer up, Rodney," said John. "I've got a great plan for your raid!"

"I thought you said it wasn't a raid. Okay, how do we get in?"

John grinned. "I've been talking to Ronon's miner friends."


	9. Chapter 9

The knife hit a stone again, with a metallic crack. Ronon scraped the soil out of the way with the blade and his fingers. The ground was baked solid and it wasn't worth expending the energy needed to get any deeper. He cut the root off, awkwardly in the narrow hole, then held up the scruffy plant and hacked off all the top growth. The root was an uninspiring sight, knobbly and gnarled, but twist it til its skin split open and chew it to release the juice and it would help keep infection at bay.

Ronon pushed through the undergrowth, limping back into the shade of the woodland. The clearing had given him leaves to replace his dressings and the medicinal root, but back under the trees it was cooler and the walking was easier. The ground had been rising steadily since he'd left the beach and Ronon had followed the rise. In the underground city he'd ridden a long way down in the mining trucks, so it followed that he needed to climb to find his way back to the Gate environs.

He strode, not fast but steadily, the miles passing. He crossed a stream, drank, washed the root, twisted and worked it in his hands until it split, and then chewed it as he walked, the bitterness catching at his throat. Dappled shade became patched with midday brightness and the ground fell away in a tumble of rock and briar. A vista spread out before him. To his left a high, blue peak wreathed about with spiralling vapours and to his right, far away on a sun-bleached plain, a city; a city hazed with green encroaching nature, long abandoned and long harvested for its resources by those that dwelt beneath. Ronon gazed at the mountain. It was really a very clever disguise, the rocky peak bare of growth where poisonous vapours seeped forth from the volcanic core within; except this was no volcano.

Ronon skirted the treeline, edging around the steep fall. The Getters would have ways; no matter how careful they were, how wary of alerting the Wraith, there'd be tracks between mountain and city and he was the man to follow them.

oOo

"What if a train comes?" he'd said.

"Flatten yourself again the wall," had been the blithe reply.

Rodney was flat. As flat as he could make himself against the cold, rust-flaking surface, his head turned to one side, his eyes closed. The tunnel shook with approaching thunder and then, with dragging turbulence, the roar was all around him. His bones, his teeth vibrated and his whole body threatened to shake into the path of the hurtling trucks. He breathed out and pressed himself still further into the wall, reduced to simple endurance, his mind a blank well of noise and fear.

"Rodney!"

Cold against his cheek, hard metal at his back, press tight, keep pressing, keep living.

"Rodney! It has gone!"

A firm hand on his shoulder, a flickering light on his eyelids. He opened his eyes. Teyla was there, her face concerned in the steady, narrow beam of light from her P90.

"Gone?" he croaked.

"Yes. Come, Rodney, we must keep going!"

"Oh. Yes. Right." He was rigid, unwilling to risk movement. Teyla took his arm and apparently his body trusted her without his mind having to think about it, because he began stumbling along the track beside her.

"It should not be much further." Teyla's light flickered up and down over the wall to their right. 

"I hope not."

"There!" Teyla trained her beam on a vertical crack in the panels and a little further along, her light revealed a tiny window of thick glass.

"Somewhere here." Rodney ran his fingers over the rough surface below the window. "I can't... Oh, yes, got it!" He kept one finger on the small square hole and pulled Herrick's key from his pocket. It slid in and turned and the vertical crack opened.

Rodney withdrew the key and Teyla stepped down into the coal bunker. Her flashlight wavered confusingly and Rodney heard the crunch and grate of coal chunks as she moved about.

"I can't see!" he hissed. "Is it much of a drop?"

"No, but be careful. It's very uneven."

"Careful. How can I be careful if I can't see?"

Rodney stepped forward, aiming for the white patch of light where it hit the lumps of gritty fuel.

"Ow! Dammit! Ow!"

"Are you hurt, Rodney?"

"Fell on my knee. Then on my ass. Bruised knee. Bruised ass. How do we get out of here?"

"This way. But we must be quiet."

There were rungs in the side of the bunker. Teyla climbed and he heard the scrape of rusty hinges, then there was a square of dim light above, obscured for a moment, then the silhouette of Teyla's head. He followed her and climbed through.

It was a power room, primitive but efficient, a furnace roaring steadily, shovels ready for stoking, pressure and temperature gauges and the distant whine of turbines.

"There'll be people about," he whispered. "This needs monitoring twenty-four seven. Or twenty-eight whatever."

Teyla nodded and pointed to a doorway, gesturing to him to stay at her back. They stepped out into a large room, crowded with pipework. Huge tubes rose into the ceiling; flues, carrying smoke and fumes to the surface, Rodney guessed. The drone of turbines was louder, and became louder still for a second. Teyla pushed him into the shadow of the flues and they froze as a man crossed the room, checked gauges here and there, and went into the furnace room. Teyla beckoned Rodney forward and looked about her.

"Which way?"

He shrugged, but pointed away from the turbine room to a set of double doors. Teyla, keeping to the shadows, made her way forward. They passed through the doors and found themselves at the bottom of a stairwell.

"So, where does a power-hungry clan leader keep his stolen Gate crystals?"

"We will search Breckna's office, but it is a long way above."

They climbed, slowly. Rodney tried to tread softly but sound echoed and even whispers were magnified. A door opened beneath them. They hurried up the flight of stairs and through a door on the next level. The floor was in darkness, but Rodney had a sense of a large space around him. Teyla flicked on her P90 light and sent it gliding over work benches and lathes and racks of tools. She switched it off and they crouched in the dark, waiting. Footsteps rang in the hollowness of the stairwell, then faded and a door slammed far above.

Rodney's heart still beat quickly. "Don't these people have homes to go to?"

oOo

The light was fading, but still Ronon followed the tracks, limping more heavily, but determined. There were several small paths, criss-crossing the face of the mountain, none much bigger than an animal track; the Getters changed their route to avoid detection. He climbed, slid on some loose rock, fell and skinned his hands. Five minutes break, no more, then on again, higher, the vegetation thinning, the taint on the air growing as fumes drifted down on the evening breeze. Ronan scrambled over a ridge of rock and found himself facing a cave, flanked by a tumbling stream. He grinned in satisfaction and made his halting way forward. Beneath the overhang of the cave was a truck, like, yet unlike the mining trucks. It sat on rails with a rack and pinion mechanism, which descended steeply just inside the entrance of the cave. The stream had been diverted so that it filled a tank suspended beneath the truck, which was full and running over. It was ingenious; transport that could take heavy loads and give out no heat, no energy signature of any kind. Ronon climbed into the truck. A large lever stuck out of the base at an angle at the rear end. Ronon grasped the handle, squeezed, and eased it over. There was a clunk of engaging machinery beneath him and slowly, the weight of the water pulled the truck down the track, down into the depths of the mountain.

oOo

They'd be in by now; in through the back door that Herrick had given them, into the heart of the Maker factory. John turned his glass, spreading the patch of moisture beneath, where he'd spilt some of his beer. Would they find the crystals? God, he hoped so. This place was a mess. If they could get the Gate working he could go home and let someone else deal. Except he wouldn't. Not with the team still missing and not, definitely not with Ronon missing too and out there, maybe injured, maybe dying, maybe... No.

Waiting. Just waiting. That was the hard thing. Being the one to sit and think and wonder and worry. The events of the last few days tumbled around in John's head. He tried to see the sequence from Breckna's point of view. Was he behind it all? Was he the master, pulling the strings? And the Getter son, Jerret, turning up when everyone thought him dead. Attacked in his own home, forced to flee, returning to find both parents killed. The facts turned and spiralled and danced in John's head. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, took another sip of his beer, eased his aching arm in its sling. It was like planning chess moves, trying to see ahead, to predict the opponent's plans, their response; except the game had started before he and his team had arrived, and some of the pieces were already lost. John closed his eyes and the gentle murmur of conversation faded. Who, really, were the players here? Who the humble pawns, sacrificed to protect their leaders? What minds opposed each other in this game of power? And which king would, in the end, fall?

oOo

The level above the workshop was open to the stairwell; a broad corridor, off which could be seen glass-fronted labs, some in darkness, some lit, one with the door ajar allowing a low murmur of voices punctuated by the occasional laugh to float toward Rodney and Teyla. Rodney began to tiptoe forward, but Teyla pulled him back, firmly.

Cooking smells lingered on the next level. Teyla continued to climb, checking behind her to make sure Rodney had resisted the lure of the staff canteen. One more floor to go before the reception level; another open space, with a central pool of desks flanked by glass-walled offices and meeting rooms. A light was on in the nearest room and raised voices could be heard. Teyla could see one man, seated at a table, his back to her. His head shook, he scribbled something on a notepad. Teyla kept her eyes fixed on the room, and gestured to Rodney to move. She heard him slip behind her and begin to climb the next flight, his puffing breath too loud to her hunter's ears. She turned to follow, still watching the meeting room. The man's head turned. She froze. Had he seen her? He spoke, shrugged, jotted another note. Teyla moved on.

Rodney looked down at her, his eyes wide and anxious. She waved him upward and they emerged onto the reception level, a waist height barrier shielding them from view. Teyla peered around the edge. Dim light came from a far corner of the room; a woman sat alone, a lamp trained on her work, her head bent close to some fine stitching. Her pool of light should blind her to peripheral movement, but they would have to be silent. Teyla turned to Rodney and pressed a finger firmly to her lips. He nodded. She moved, slowly, steadily, close to the wall, deep in shadow, the carpeted floor a blessing. Rodney's breath was fast and shallow behind her. They reached the stairs to the mezzanine level and began to climb.

"Hal? Is that you?" The woman had looked up from her work and was squinting into the darkness. "Fenti?" She muttered to herself, shook her head and went back to her work. Teyla climbed the stairs, silently opened the door of Breckna's office and ushered Rodney ahead of her. She slipped inside and closed the door. 

Rodney turned on the desk lamp and began searching the drawers. Teyla investigated two doors behind the desk, one of which proved to be a bathroom. The other was a cupboard, lined with shelves of neatly labelled narrow boxes. The text meant nothing, but several boxes were slightly misaligned. She slid one out, opened it and riffled through the contents. The lettering system was unfamiliar and she could make nothing of it. Teyla closed the file and slid it back on the shelf. The next two boxes were similarly unforthcoming, but in the fourth there was a document written in two columns, one in the Pereynian script and another in Ancient. Flipping over the pages she could see some spaces where the document was incomplete and some lines - for signatures?

"Rodney. Can you read this?"

"What? Oh, that's Ancient." He plucked the document from her hands and spread it out on the desk. "Pretty poor Ancient, actually. But, yes, this is a contract. Well, a draft. A draught trading agreement. With us. Breckna's counting his chickens; and significantly overestimating his hatch rate if I'm any judge, which I am!"

"Have you found anything?"

"Yes, his phone, speaker, whatever they call it. It's in the bottom drawer. You see, the wire runs down the table leg and then beneath the carpet?" He folded up the papers and stuffed them in his pocket.

"Should we take that?"

"Yes, we should. Carry on searching."

Teyla returned to the file cupboard. 

"Aha! Gotcha! I knew it!"

"Rodney?"

"Look!"

Yellow lamplight glinted off the distinctive crystals in Rodney's hands. Teyla nodded, decisively. "We must leave, now. If this man Breckna is truly responsible we are in danger."

Rodney nodded. "Yes, yes we are." He slipped the crystals into his pockets.

Teyla tiptoed to the door and put her hand on the handle. She looked over her shoulder and met Rodney's eyes. He switched off the lamp and she slowly opened the door. The scene was as before, the single pool of yellow light, the solitary worker.

They made it across the mezzanine, down the stairs and part way along the wall when Teyla heard heavy footsteps approaching from the level below.

"Hal!" The dim light was obscured and then revealed; a man stood within the yellow pool, half leaning against the workbench, a gun holster visible at his side.

"Lorren."

"I thought I heard you a while ago. Haven't you checked the office level already?"

"Not unless Fenti did it, no. What did you hear? Coulda been cave rats."

"Not a chance! The boss saw those little beasts off, thank you very much!"

"The boss's orders saw them off - we security goons had to do the actual catching! Got a dirty job? Give it to us, that's the rule!"

She shoved him, laughing. "Get on with your dirty job, then, goon!"

He made a mocking bow. "Certainly, madam! Let's have the lights up! Make the little critters run back to their holes." Hal strode purposefully toward a wall. 

They were too far from the stairs. They'd have to hide. There was a door, close by, under the overhang of the mezzanine. Teyla opened it, pushed Rodney in and closed it behind her. It shut with a sharp click and around the doorframe a line of light sprang to life. A sharp querying note came from the woman, Lorren, and was echoed by the guard; they had heard the door.

"What do we do?" Rodney was close to panicking.

"In there!" Teyla hoped the door led to a filing cupboard, like Breckna's. It did. Other voices had joined those outside. Time was short.

"Get down Rodney!"

"What?"

"There is room for you under the lowest shelf. Get under!"

"What about you?"

"I will let them capture me. Stay there and wait until it is safe to come out!"

"What? No!"

"Rodney, please!" He looked at her, his mouth working helplessly, his eyes bleak.

"Okay." He flattened himself against the floor and wriggled beneath the shelf. Teyla stacked some files in front of him. The voices outside were louder. Someone hammered against the cupboard door.

"Come out!"

Another voice spoke. "Unarmed!"

Teyla unclipped her P90 and laid it on the floor.

"Hurry up!"

She took out her sidearm and laid it on the floor, then opened the door and stepped out, blinking and shielding her eyes in the bright light.

oOo

This was wrong. All wrong. Teyla had shut the door behind her, but Rodney could hear Breckna's oily voice and Teyla's calm tones responding. He shouldn't be in here, with his teammate sacrificing herself to save him. Breckna was a murderous power-hungry monster; who knew what he'd do to her? But both of them being captured would be worse. He had the Gate crystals; he could get help. Breckna's voice was becoming agitated. Something was digging into Rodney's side. He brought his hand up, awkwardly in the narrow space. There was a curved piece of metal and some kind of box. His fingers felt an uneven surface, smooth raised sections set into the flat of wood? He felt one of the smooth areas give slightly and pushed it. Rodney nearly hit his head on the shelf above. He wriggled out from beneath the shelf, pulling out the box and the curving metal, from which a faint squawking could be heard. He snatched it up and held it to his ear, his heart beating fast, facts tumbling in his head, connections snapping into place like crystals into their slots. The voices outside had fallen silent. Had they gone? The door burst open and Rodney flung up a hand to ward off the glaring light.

"Dr McKay!"

"Whose office is this?"

"What? How dare you! This is outrageous!"

"Yes, yes," said Rodney, climbing to his feet. "I see your point, but, whose office is this?"

Through squinting eyes, Rodney saw Breckna's mouth form a grim line and dark red anger crept up his throat and across his face.

"How dare you break into my premises! Who gave you the right to come to this world and do as you please?"

"Look, yes, I was wrong, apologies all round, but I need to know! Whose office!"

"It's Mr Gresden's." The seamstress spoke, peering round the bulk of her boss and two security guards, weapons raised.

"The foreman!" Rodney held up his find and thrust the headset toward Breckna. "Listen to this! Just listen!"

Breckna slowly took the curving metal and held an earpiece up to listen. His expression immediately changed from fury to shock. "That's Miss Zanta! That's me! What...?"

"Your foreman's been listening into your conversations and passing intel to the enemy," said Rodney. "And my guess is that he's fed us all a fair bit of misinformation one way and another."

"They never came here!" Teyla's eyes darted here and there, unseeing, as if the facts were realigning themselves for her, as they had for Rodney.

"Exactly!" he said. "Gresden signed Jordan and Bell in on the register and told us he'd seen them, but they never left the Getter House, and I don't believe Jerret did either!"

"He did it! He killed his parents!" Teyla said.

"And two of his own men, and who knows what he's done with our team!"

"That puppy! He's been snapping at his father's heels for years! And since Galta married again, rumour has it that he'll be disinherited if there's another child. That won't happen now!"

"Tythia was not Jerret's mother?" Teyla asked.

"Of course she wasn't!" Breckna said. "And there are some pretty nasty rumours about what happened to Galta's first wife!"

Teyla turned stunned eyes to her teammate. "The maid, Yashna. She said her mistress was with child!"

"Ha!" Breckna's laugh was brutal. "There you are, then! The pup killed the top dog and his new bitch, before she could give him another son!"

Rodney shuddered with distaste and saw Teyla stiffen with anger.

"You did not have Brant killed," she said.

"The old man? Is that what you thought? I have no need to stoop so low!"

"Gresden must have listened in and then the Getters killed him to incriminate the Makers! Getters attacked us on the way back from your factory for the same reason! Jerret sent a man to try to stop anyone seeing the bodies of his parents, and, I'm guessing it was Gresden who planted the Gate crystals in your desk drawer!" said Rodney. "Jerret wanted to discredit you, so that we'd back him up in a nice little coup and give him complete control! He must have been about to make a move against his father when Jordan's team came along and he saw a better way."

"But we will not assist him with military force," said Teyla. "We told him as much!"

"We did," said Rodney, thoughtfully. 

"He's not a man to give up on an idea, I would imagine," said Breckna. "He may try to force your hand."

"Yes, yes, he will!" Rodney rubbed both hands through his hair and screwed up his eyes.

"You should..." Breckna began.

"Just shut up I'm trying to think!" Rodney held up a hand in Breckna's stunned face and then snapped his fingers in a rapid flurry. "He's taken out a team, pointed the finger at you and we've refused to react! What will he do next? Raise the stakes! Make us retaliate!"

Rodney met Teyla's eyes, recalling Jerret's interest in John's rank.

"Sheppard," he said.


	10. Chapter 10

Jerret Kethron tugged his hat brim lower and hunched his shoulders against the steady drip of oily water. He drew hungrily on his smoke, the glowing tip shielded by his curled hand, his breath, exhaled through pursed lips, spiralling, blue-tinged, in the light from Zanta's sign. Next to him, the two men were silent and Jerret's lip curled at their unease; bosses weren't supposed to do jobs like this. But Jerret found himself hungry for everything the dark promised, the harshness of the smoke in his lungs and the dripping shadows of the streets that were his domain, the anticipation of the violence ahead. Power would be his, soon. After years of gritting his teeth and bearing his father's derision, soon he would have more power than his late, unlamented parent had ever dreamt of. After this dark's work, Atlantis' wrath would surely descend on the Makers, tame diplomacy abandoned in the face of not only the deaths of Major Jordan and his team, but also their Colonel Sheppard.

The doors to Zanta's bar swung open and two figures emerged, one tripping up the steps and leaning on the other. Jerret frowned.

"Is he drunk?" he hissed.

"No, Sir. Drugged," replied Gresden.

"Drugs make me loopy!" The other man draped his arm over Gresden's shoulders and giggled. "Toldja that, McKay!" He lurched closer to Jerret and squinted. "You're not McKay!"

"My name is Jerret Kethron," he said, coldly.

"Oh, hey, you're the Getter guy, right? This fella, Gresden, says he knows where Jordan and his team are! We're going there now! You could come!" He smiled foolishly.

"I'd be delighted to accompany you, Colonel." To Gresden he added, "Why did you drug him?"

"I didn't! He said he took pain pills! For his arm." Gresden shrugged. "It made my job easy."

Jerret regarded the grinning man, leaning heavily on the shoulder of his loyal spy. The Colonel didn't look very impressive for a high-ranking military officer, one arm in a sling, his shirt untucked and his rapidly-dampening hair drooping over his forehead. He'd left himself vulnerable in a public place and allowed himself to be led out into the dark, unarmed. Would this man's death be enough of a blow to his commander to incite retribution against the Makers? It had better be.  
"Bring him," Jerret said, shortly. He turned on his heel and stalked away from the cold, blue light.

oOo

Zanta put down the speaker and hurried out of her rooms and down the stairs. She stood, her hands gripping the railing overlooking the bar, scanning the busy tables through the pall of smoke. He wasn't there. Down the next flight and across to the bar, ignoring hails from familiar customers and curious glances at her agitation.

"Colonel Sheppard! Where is he?"

The barman replied. "He went out with the Maker foreman, Gresden."

"When?"

"Coupla minutes ago."

Zanta, heart pounding, wove through the close-packed tables and pushed through a group entering the bar.

"Dennet, are you armed?"

"Always, Ma'am," answered the doorman, patting a hidden holster.

"Come with me!" She pushed open the doors, ran up the steps and stood, listening, her head turning to look up and down the alley, one hand sheltering her face against the perpetual drip of run-off.

"Ma'am?"

In the grey-orange, murky distance, there was a flicker of movement and a snatch of a familiar voice floated back through the darkness.

"This way, Dennet!"

oOo

The speaker remained silent. Rodney paced back and forth, casting irritated glances at Breckna where he sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers on the shining wood, next to his primitive device. Breckna dialled Zanta once more, his fingers drumming with increasing agitation. Finally, he slammed his hand down on the desk and stood.

"Hal, Fenti, with me!" he barked. "You two can come too, if you must!" He stopped and faced Teyla and Rodney with a darkly threatening glare. "But if anything has happened to my Zanta, I shall lay it at your door!"

"She's not yours!" said Rodney. "You don't own her!"

"Neither is she yours, Dr McKay, and most especially not since you chose to mistrust her! And does she repay you by casting you out to take your chances on the streets? No, she rushes to defend your pathetic leader and presumably has now chosen to put her own life at risk by going after him alone!"

"She'll have taken Dennet," said Rodney quietly.

"You'd better hope she has!"

oOo

John looked round at his companions.

"Hey, um, guys?" The grim faces remained impassive, four solid bodies neatly fencing him in. "Hey, uh, it's kinda wet and a bit cold. You guys all have hats and coats and stuff. Can I go back for mine?"

"No."

"It's just I'm not feeling so good and I'm kinda tired now. Could we maybe do this some other time?"

"It's not much further."

John trudged along with his escort, rock walls about him now instead of metal, yellow lantern light instead of the orange streetlighting.

"Where is it we're going again?"

One of the men muttered, "Can I shoot him now, Boss?"

"Did you say shoot? You did, didn'tcha?" John grinned and shoved the man's shoulder in a friendly way, eliciting a growl. "You want anything shooting, I'm your man! It's what I do best! Or blow things up. No, McKay blows things up, I shoot them." He paused frowning. "Or... no, no, I do both!" One of the men gave him a sidelong look of dislike. "I don't have a weapon, now though. Should be a P90, hanging here." He patted his chest, as if the weapon might be hiding in his shirt. "Hm... This is wet. How come you all have hats and coats and stuff and I don't?"

"Boss, please!"

"No!"

"Hey this is better! I can see my feet!" The passageway was sparsely lit by cold white lights fastened to the walls, wires dangling between them in limp festoons. They turned down a side passage, unlit. John tripped. "Can't we go the other way? I can't see!"

He was shoved roughly from behind and staggered forward holding his injured arm.

"Enough with the shoving, mister!" He turned and squared up to the man, pushing into his space.

"Come, now, Colonel Sheppard! Forgive my man's impatience! Soon you'll be with your missing team!"

"Oh, yeah, Jordan." John turned and began to follow Jerret into the darkness once more.

They crossed several more lit passages and a confusing pattern of side-branches, then they stopped and Gresden set down his lantern and drew a key from his pocket. There was a heavy metal door set into the rock, which he unlocked. Jerret nodded to the guards who brought their weapons up and gestured John forward.

"Look, Colonel Sheppard, here is you missing team!" As the door opened, he and Gresden pushed John hard so that he fell, full length on the floor, landing hard on his injured arm. He lay, shocked by the sudden pain. A vicious kick increased his agony and he curled up, panting in quick, shallow breaths, his eyes closed tight.

"Open your eyes, Colonel! Don't you want to see your friends?"

John, holding his arm close to his body, opened his eyes and slowly sat up. In the yellow lantern light he saw two figures huddled again the rough rock wall, their faces gaunt and shadowed, their eyes hopeless: Captain Franks and Dr Griffin.

"And look! Your team leader and his loyal Sergeant!"

The nauseating stench of decay told John what he would see even before he turned his head. The bodies lay, one on top of the other, in a pathetically small pile, flaccid limbs tangled together, the uniforms sickeningly familiar.

"Of course, I couldn't let them live once they'd witnessed my rather dramatic takeover, but I thought, why let an opportunity go to waste? To incriminate my enemies, win a powerful ally and merge the two clans under my control! Such chances come but once in a lifetime!"

John sat on the cold ground, curled protectively around his arm; he could feel a trickle running down to his elbow.

Jerret snorted derisively. "If you'd just taken the bait and sided with me against the Makers, I could have had these two released unharmed! Gresden here would have laid some kind of trail to the Makers' door. But now, you will all have to die! Although, I'm beginning to doubt that the death of such a pathetic specimen will suffice! Perhaps I should terminate the woman and the scientist as well!"

Ice cold fury filled John's heart. He struggled to maintain the appearance of confusion and weakness he had assumed when he had seen Gresden approaching him in Zanta's bar. His right hand, tucked inside his sling, found the grip of his pistol and held it firmly, and, with Franks and Griffin to protect, trapped in a small, isolated cell with four enemies, two with their guns trained on him, John did the only thing that would give him a chance: he shot the lantern.

oOo

Zanta's blue velvet dress was heavy with dampness and splashed up to her knees with dirt and grit. She and Dennet had left the huge metal matrix of the city and entered the cave complex above, that labyrinth of tunnels known only by Getter initiates. The faint sounds from their quarry were fading and Zanta was becoming desperate. To carry on, to follow Gresden and his men and try to save the Colonel, or to go back for help? Breckna would follow, but how would he know where they had gone?

"Dennet, give me your weapon!"

"Ma'am?"

"You must go back and fetch Mr Breckna and lead him here!"

"What will you do?"

"I will keep following them and, if I can I'll stop them killing the Colonel, or at least distract them or something, anything!"

"No, Ma'am, you go back! I'll follow!"

"Dennet! Your weapon, now!"

He handed it over and she checked the chamber in a business-like manner. "Go!" she insisted, and turned down the passageway, with determination.

For a while, she thought she had lost them, but John's voice floated back to her hollowly and she caught the trail once more. On and on, hurrying where the way was lit, groping and stumbling where it was dark. She came to a choice of ways and could hear nothing. Zanta listened at each of the three passages, holding her body as still as she could, closing her eyes and willing there to be some sound, some clue. But there was nothing. Then a shot reverberated along the far left tunnel and she turned and, one hand skimming along the rough wall, she hurried forward as quickly as she could. Her hand left the wall; there was a sense of a wider space. Then there was a faint, fast pattering, which grew louder and seemed to come from the walls themselves; it resolved itself into the thud of footsteps and suddenly a solid form cannoned into her. She shrieked, he grunted, they both fell heavily to the ground.

Several gasping breaths, then, "Zanta?"

"Colonel!"

oOo

Her heavy amber scent was unmistakable, the velvet fabric soft beneath his hand, yet in the dark and the rush of adrenaline, it seemed impossible that she should be here. His instinct for strategy took over.

"Take this!" he said, urgently, attempting to press his pistol into her hands.

"No! I have one!

"Then run!" he said. "Back the way you came! Run, fire, then hide!"

"What? What about you?"

"Go! Now!"

She ran, stumbling in the dark, her movements black-on-black in the barely-there glimmer bouncing off uneven walls. John stepped back until his questing fingers touched rock. They were coming; the reverberate thudding grew and he waited til it boomed in his ears, fired, then dived to one side before two weapons instinctively pinpointed his position and let rip their thunder of bullets. He fired again, rolling over on the bruising rock and hit something solid which collapsed on him, knocking the wind from his lungs. He felt a grab at his hair and twisted and writhed, bucked upward and was stunned by a deafening blast close to his head. He pulled the trigger again and, in the fading report, heard a curse, and felt the thud of a boot in his side as he scrambled on hands and knees away from the heavy breaths and stamping feet. 

"Where's he gone?"

A shot rang out in the distance, and one set of boots thudded into action.

"No! He's still here!" The footfalls receded nevertheless and John thanked Zanta silently. He rose to his feet, inch by inch, his and his opponents' heavy breathing mingling into a muffling white noise in the echoing space. John turned slowly, straining to pick up a hint of tell-tale movement. Behind him! He spun, fired, solid muscle slammed into him and, as he fell, his wrist hit the ground and his pistol flew from his grip. He heard the click of an empty chamber and then the hard angles of his opponent's weapon smashed into the side of his head and sparkles of light fizzed in John's eyes. He kicked upward, heard an 'oof' of breath, flailed for his boot and grasped the hilt of his hidden knife. He plunged it upward and felt the blade bite, twisted and withdrew to the man's bellow of agony. John rolled aside and, brought up short by the tunnel wall, scrambled half to his feet and pushed off, trusting his instincts to find his mark. The blade bit again. The grunt of pain confirmed the target; John thrust out his hand and grasped fabric, holding on as his opponent writhed and punched. He spun and brought his arm round the unseen throat, his muscles tightening in a choke-hold, desperate fingers clawing at his elbow. The knife plunged in and he pulled hard, a wet flood splashing his choking arm as his knife hand jerked through the hard tendon and cartilage of his enemy's throat.  
Then the body was a heavy weight, slithering to the ground and John staggered back, reeled and fell, aware now of his sobbing breaths and trembling body. He slid his shaking legs beneath him and knelt, but for the moment could rise no further, his head spinning, his skin slick with sweat, his body rapidly chilling.

He could have sagged to the welcoming ground and slept, even in the cold and dark and danger. He felt beaten and weak and his left arm hung once more useless at his side, his reopened wound pulsing with rage in time with his heart. He blinked into the darkness and shivered in the cold silence. Zanta had been there, and she'd drawn one man off. Had he found her? Was she alone and fighting for her life, in danger because she'd helped John? Franks and Griffin; were they dead, killed by Jerret's hand? Or had they escaped when he shot the lantern? He groaned in pain and helplessness, then found the sling still hanging round his neck, took it off and, holding one end in his teeth, wrapped it tightly round his dangling arm. His sense of duty strengthening his unwilling body, he forced himself to his feet, then shuffled about on the rough-hewn floor feeling his opponent's lax body and some loose chips of rock, but not his pistol. 

Time was short; he began to make his way back up the passage, halting and weaving at first, then more steadily, accepting, once again, the choice, the hard decision. He would go after his missing teammates and hope that Zanta remained hidden in the dark.

oOo

"She went down here." Dennet led them on, into a narrow, unlit passage and out into a wider area, well-used and lit, with several branching passages. "Then, I don't know!"

"Oh, nice work, Lennie!"

Dennet clearly understood Rodney's tone, if not the reference, and rounded on him, fists raised.

"I've had just about enough..."

"Stop!" Breckna's voice boomed in the cavernous space. "Fighting amongst ourselves will not help Zanta!"

"Or the Colonel," added Teyla, a firm hand on Rodney's arm.

Breckna continued. "If we cannot ascertain the correct route we must separate..."

His words were interrupted by a gunshot, followed by a flurry of firing and Breckna's guards led the way toward the sound, choosing the broadest passage. Teyla hesitated.

"Wait! I do not think..." Another shot rang out. "This way, Rodney!"

Rodney followed her into a narrow tunnel, Dennet's heavy tread behind him. The bodyguard overtook him, and at the next intersection overtook Teyla also and they chased another burst of gunfire, plunging into a tunnel that branched sharply right. Rodney stopped. Surely, that had been a cry from his left? He was alone, his companions' footfalls receding into the distance. A gasp, a grunt, another cry to his left and Rodney moved, one hand on the rock wall, his other holding his Beretta before him. In the faint light, he saw two struggling forms; the smaller kicked the larger and flung up a white arm to ward off a blow. Rodney sighted down his pistol. No; no clear shot. He ran forward, feet pounding, head down, using his body as a weapon. His shoulder rammed the larger shape and he kept pushing, even when a meaty fist bludgeoned into his stomach.

"Zanta, run!" he rasped, trying to bring his weapon to bear.

"No!" There was a glint of light against a gun barrel and then another flare of light on white teeth, followed by a cry of pain and the clatter of the weapon falling.

"Bitch!" He heard Zanta gasp at a blow and a pointed shoe kicked his shin.

"Ow, dammit, that was me!" He tried to shove her away, to get between her and their opponent, his gun useless in the three-way struggle of tangled limbs. A rough hand grasped his throat, another grabbed his arm and twisted it up his back, and he felt his grip on his Beretta weakening. Rodney stamped his foot down hard, but Zanta cried out and their assailant laughed. Rodney, choking, his vision starring, flung his head back hard and, through the stunning pain in his skull, heard a satisfying crunch. The choke-hold was released, and Rodney spun around to see Zanta mete out a hearty knee to the groin. He pushed her out of the way, flung up his weapon and fired, point blank, into the man's head, jerking the trigger over and over until his ears rang and the flashing discharge was burned into his eyes.

"Dr McKay, that's enough!" A hand grasped his arm. "Rodney, stop!"

He stopped. His arm fell. She held him, and he, shaking with fear and anger and shock, slowly clasped his arms around her and held her back.

oOo

John squeezed the grip of his knife for reassurance, but knew he wasn't up to another desperate hand-to-hand fight. The best he could hope for was to sneak past Jerret and Gresden, find Franks and Griffin and then get them all out of this labyrinth. He wanted Teyla and Rodney. And Ronon. And not to be alone and injured with only a knife to fight off his enemies.

He crept up the passage toward the cell; the dreadful cell, full of the stench of death. Even now it drifted into his nostrils and he had to suppress an urge to retch. The area was dark and silent, but further on, the pale glow of a lit route penetrated the darkness; and he could hear voices. He crept closer, lowering each foot carefully to avoid the tell-tale crunch of grit.

"They should have him by now! All that gunfire, surely!"

"They'll have him." Jerret was coolly confident. "They've probably got themselves lost. Dolts."

"So, the plan's still on?"

"Of course it is! Those other two won't have got far. We'll finish them and wait to enjoy the fall-out."

"I won't, thought, will I, Mr Kethron? Because I got Sheppard from Zanta's, so they'll know I was in on it! You said you'd give me enough to set up off-world!"

"Yes, yes, you can run away and enjoy the fruits of your labours."

John nearly snorted with disbelief. Gresden would be the loser whether Jerret came out on top or not. He crept a little further, crouching down behind a stack of crates. There were a couple of benches, some shelves and various tools lying about; it looked like a sorting area for finds from Above.

"I'm going down here," Jerret said. "You go that way, see if they've doubled back. Here, give me your weapon."

"It's all I've got!"

"Find something else to use, if you're afraid of the dark!"

Confident footsteps marched away. John peered up over the crates. Gresden was mumbling to himself, picking up tools and hefting them experimentally in one hand. He picked up a large wrench; not the kind of thing John wanted to be up against. He'd have to tackle Gresden, though, and dreaded hearing the echoing reports telling him that Jerret had tracked and killed his quarry. 

Gresden's back was turned. John blinked the haze from his blurred vision, took a careful breath and stepped out into the open, his knife held low, waveringly balanced on the balls of his feet. Then gunfire erupted, but from somewhere far behind. Gresden whipped around, he saw John, raised the wrench and threw it, hard. John dodged, but then Gresden was upon him, another tool snatched from the bench, whipping down toward John's knife hand. John, one-handed, let his knife fall, and stopped Gresden's arm, pushing him backward with his chest, feeling blows thudding into his ribs. Gresden's legs hit a crate, he toppled over backward and John fell on top of him, still grasping his wrist, grinding the small bones together. Gresden yelled and dropped his weapon, kicked John off and rolled over. His hand found the wrench, he scrambled upright and then raised it over his head, his lips drawn back in a murderous grimace. John, back to the wall, flung up his arm in defence, his unfocussed eyes filled with looming shadows.

oOo

Teyla whirled round, her P90 raised, her senses on full alert. From all around her, gunfire echoed and reverberated and footsteps pounded, seeming to grow and then recede, come from behind and then before. She whipped round again as the booming reports faded. Dennet had gone, whether away from or toward the danger, she did not know or care.

Teyla closed her eyes, shutting out what little light existed, and she listened: a clang of metal against rock, a grunt, a crash. She opened her eyes and ran toward the glimmer of light, stepped out into a well-lit area, coolly sighted down her P90 and fired.

And after the deafening burst of rounds had found their target, there was silence, then a relieved rasp of exhausted breath and a familiar voice.

"Thanks, Teyla."

"John!" She pulled the body of her victim off her team leader's legs. "Are you alright?"

"Do I look alright?"

He sat, slumped with exhaustion, against the wall, one arm bloody and limp, his forehead cut and bruised.

"No, John, you do not."

He began to struggle to his feet.

"You should stay down! I will get help."

"No, no, we have to..." He broke off and breathed hard through his nose, his eyes closed. "Jerret went down there. After Franks and Griffin."

"They are here! And Major Jordan? Sergeant Bell?"

John shook his head. "They're dead," he croaked. "Help me up! We have to get after him!"

"I will go! You need to..."

"I'm coming!" he interrupted, grimly, forcing himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall. He held out a trembling hand. "Give me your sidearm."

Teyla passed over her Beretta and John took it and lurched away from the wall. Teyla stopped him.

"I am going first, John!"

"Yeah, 'kay." He gave her a bleary half-smile.

She turned and, following the steady beam of her P90 light, led the way down the passage.

oOo

Another distant burst of gunfire echoed down the tunnel to meet Jerret's impatient ears. His men were making hard work out of killing just one man; one rather incompetent man, he had thought, but now realised that perhaps the elusive Colonel Sheppard was a more formidable opponent than he had appeared. So much the better however, for the magnitude of his loss to Atlantis, and their subsequent violent suppression of the Maker Clan.

There were few side-branches this way and although not all areas were well lit, Jerret could have walked it blindfold; this was the main route to the surface, via the funicular railway. He held Gresden's weapon before him and listened for any sign of movement as he approached the final turn of the passage. A faint metallic rasp came to his ears, a very slight thud and then the grind and clank of a mechanism engaging. Jerret smirked with satisfaction and moved forward, swiftly. They wouldn't escape that way; in fact, the fools had trapped themselves nicely. He emerged at the railtrack terminus. The truck was just moving beyond the platform, slowly gathering speed. Jerret tucked his gun in his jacket and sprinted toward it, leapt off the end of the platform and landed with a crunch on the ballast at the side of the track. The truck was moving faster now. He ran along the wooden sleepers, his feet pushing off firmly, gaining steadily on his target. A burst of power, a reaching leap and his hands smacked onto the protruding metal framework. He swung up and balanced on the edge of the baseplate, withdrew the pistol and surged upward, ready to fire down upon his prey.

oOo

Teyla heard the grinding of machinery and quickened her pace.

"Run, Teyla," John urged.

She ran, John's limping gait receding behind her, and burst into brightness to see Jerret sprinting up the incline beside a climbing truck. She raised her P90.

"Teyla, fire!"

But it was too late. The truck, moving swiftly up the slope, was hidden by the rocky roof, just as a shadowy figure leapt upward and disappeared.

"No!" John crumpled to the ground beside her.

Teyla tightened her grip on her P90 and leapt off the end of the platform. She knew she would not be in time to prevent murder, but would instead deal out her own revenge.

oOo

Teyla's running figure had disappeared up the slope and John let his head fall forward and his eyes close. She wouldn't save them. The whole team would be lost to a power-hungry murderer. He rubbed his eyes and shuddered with weariness.

"Colonel Sheppard? Is that you?"

The voice seemed unreal; he didn't react.

"Colonel?"

A whining blast reached John's ears and his head jerked up. Then there was movement to his right and he turned to see a figure with its back to him that was reaching over the far edge of the platform and pulling.

"Up you come!"

"Thanks."

Two tattered figures sat next to him. He stared at them in puzzlement. Then smiled, slowly.

"Hey, Franks, Griffin."

oOo

Lost in the darkness and confusion of the deep-tunneled earth, he had wandered and searched in the silence, alone and weary. And then, the guiding sound of weapons-fire had given him a target and given him hope. He followed the sound, but was cautious and stealthy and had listened and waited. Drawn to the lights, he had seen two pale shapes slip from the shadows. Two limping, fearful figures in the tattered remains of uniforms, who had needed his help. And, runner, Wraith-killer, survivor that he was, he had used the resources at his disposal to set a trap.

When Ronon heard the running footsteps coming alongside the truck and felt the impact as someone leapt aboard, he smiled, knowing that the bait had been swallowed. He waited, clinging to the off-side of the truck and heard an explosive curse as his opponent saw that it was empty. Gripping his blaster firmly, Ronon rose and fired, hitting the leader of the Getters full in the chest. The body dropped, the rack and pinion ground, shuddered and continued. Ronon nodded in satisfaction and leapt easily down onto the railbed, leaving the truck to continue its ponderous rise to the surface.

He flung up a hand as yellow lantern light hit his eyes.

"Ronon!"

Ronon squinted into the light.

"McKay?"


	11. Chapter 11

Rodney and Zanta had gained an escort in the form of Breckna, his two security guards and Dennet, all of them rather subdued at having been running in circles while a certain Dr McKay effected a heroic rescue. He had taken charge and begun to lead them out, but they had instead emerged from a tunnel to see the inclined plane of an underground railway, and then to witness the comprehensive destruction of the Getter leader by the red blast of an energy weapon followed by his consumption by the inexorable progress of the great toothed cog beneath the climbing truck. A fitting end, Rodney thought.

The owner of the energy weapon stood before him in the lantern light, grinning tiredly, and Rodney grinned back and almost relinquished his hold on Zanta's waist and hugged his friend. But then a pounding of ballast was followed by a sobbing cry, and Ronon was engulfed in Teyla's arms, her head buried beneath his hair. His arms enfolded her and there were murmured apologies and reassurances and, no doubt, declarations of undying loyalty until Rodney was rolling his eyes with impatience.

"We still haven't found Sheppard!"

Teyla broke away from Ronon, wiping her eyes. "He is on the platform, Rodney. Down there."

"Franks 'n' Griffin are down there too," said Ronon.

"What's Sheppard up to? What's he done to himself this time? What about Jordan and Bell?"

"They're dead," Ronon said, bluntly.

"I believe we can easily find the way out from here," announced Breckna.

"Yes, I'm sure," Rodney said, dismissively. "Come on, Zanta, I'm going to find Sheppard!" Her hand in one firm grip, the lantern in the other, he began to make his stumbling way down the side of the track. "What we need is some proper food and some proper light," he grumbled, stumbling in the rolling ballast, and tripping over the end of a sleeper. "And some smooth walking surfaces wouldn't go amiss. With transporters for long distances."

"And your friends around you?" suggested Zanta.

"Yes, or at least, back where they belong. Teyla pummelling Ronon in the gym, me in my lab doing something of intergalactic importance, and Sheppard lolling about avoiding paperwork, knowing him!"

"Sounds good, McKay!" The voice came from the huddle of slumped shapes on the platform.

Rodney hopped up onto the surface, helping Zanta up after him. He looked down at his team leader.

"Correction: make that Sheppard lolling about in the infirmary!"

"I'm okay, Rodney," drawled John. "We're just waiting here for the next train to Atlantis."

"Where do we buy tickets?" Ronon asked.

John turned and looked at him. "Thought I heard the dulcet tones of an energy weapon, Chewie," he said. "Nice timing."

Rodney watched for the classic Teyla eye-roll at her friends' battened-down emotions; he wasn't disappointed. "Ah! Together again!" he said, with satisfaction.

"Not Jordan and Bell, though," said John. There was silence and the two surviving teammates shuffled closer together, shivering. Teyla pulled out an emergency blanket from her vest, shook it out and wrapped it around Captain Bell. Rodney did the same for Griffin.

"Touching as this may be, I am a busy man and it's time I returned to my pressing affairs!" Breckna said, importantly.

"Your affairs can wait!" said Zanta, sharply. "We need to help these people return home!"

"Yes, we can go home, Sheppard! We have the Gate crystals!"

"That's great, Rodney. Wish they could send a Jumper." John's head drooped and Zanta took off the jacket that her doorman had draped over her shoulders and wrapped it round him instead. There followed a rush from Breckna and his guards to be the first to offer Zanta some warmer covering but Breckna's smug expression fell when he won the race only to have Zanta remove his luxurious coat and offer it to Ronon, who took it gratefully.

"Thank you, Hal, Fenti," Zanta said, putting on both of their jackets to forestall any further arguments. "Now, please assist Dr Griffin and Sergeant Bell! Dennet, help the Colonel. We have a long way to walk!"

"I'm okay," John said, waving Dennet away. "Ronon?"

Ronon shrugged. "Good enough."

"Oh, will you just listen to the hard men!" said Rodney. "I guess I should be skipping along then, having been merely punched in the guts, half choked and then used the back of my head to break some goon's nose!"

"Nice one!" said Ronon.

"Thank you!" said Rodney. "I was rather proud of that particular move!"

"John, allow Dennet to help you!" Teyla ordered.

John, grumbling, submitted, and for a moment, Rodney thought Dennet would scoop up his sagging team leader and hurl him over one shoulder. However, he just pulled John's uninjured arm around his neck and they followed Breckna back along the main tunnel. Zanta remained at Rodney's side, ushering the two security men with the rescued team members ahead of her.

"Thank you," said Rodney.

"What for?"

"For going after Sheppard," he said. They left the platform behind and followed the bedraggled party. "And for not throwing us out when I didn't believe you about Breckna. I still don't like him, though!"

She smiled. "He is rather pompous," she whispered. "And, yes, sometimes rude. But he can be kind, in his way. He looks after his clan."

"Hm, maybe. His snacks were revolting, although, thinking about it, maybe that should have been a clue."

"How so?"

"Well, the Getter cookies were full of lovely white flour and sugar and delicious decadence, whereas presumably that seaweed-tasting stuff is actually good for you."

"Very," she said.

"So, in future, I'm going to snack first and ask questions later."

She squeezed his arm and he wondered if she'd be a part of that future.

oOo

It was a long way to the Gate, with no shortcuts. Franks and Griffin leant heavily on their escorts; they'd reluctantly accepted that their teammates' bodies would have to stay where they were for now. Ronon cleared out both Rodney and Teyla's pocketed snacks and then growled in response to any enquiries, which John took to mean he was still hungry and probably hurting and tired too. Rodney complained of a headache and speculated about concussion and a possible fractured skull. John simply focussed on putting one foot in front of another, or one foot below another, as they negotiated the endless flights of stairs that would bring them to the Gate level.

He stumbled and winced and Dennet said, "Want me to carry you?"

"No!"

"No, you'll struggle on stubbornly," said Rodney, "until all your little lambs are through the Gate, and then collapse in the Gateroom!"

"You calling yourself a lamb, McKay?"

"No, I'm calling you a sheepdog! In fact," said Rodney, with smirking satisfaction, "I bet that was your nickname with your flyboy buddies! Sheppard, sheepdog, it makes a lot of sense!"

"Give it a rest, Rodney!"

"Or no, maybe Lassie! Or Laika!"

"Rodney, that is enough!" said Teyla.

"Toto?"

oOo

"Shall I try again, Ma'am?"

Elizabeth hesitated, gripping the railing as she overlooked the Gateroom. "No." She turned and gave Chuck a brief, apologetic smile. "Thank you, no."

"Waiting's always hard," he offered. "When there's nothing you can do."

She nodded, tightly, and turned to face the silent Gate once more. Then she took a deep breath and turned back, with a determined smile. "I'm sorry, I must be distracting you from your work, hovering about here. And I should get on with my work too."

The Gate activated.

Elizabeth froze, unwilling to face the Gate until she knew. Her eyes fastened onto Chuck's concerned features. His face relaxed into a smile. "Teyla's IDC, Ma'am. Lowering the shield."

A painful lump rose in Elizabeth's throat. "Thank you. Thank you, Chuck. Call a med team, please. Just in case." She felt as if she were thanking more than the Gate technician and suddenly she needed to move, to be down there, among her people when they came home, not distantly overlooking. There was a ripple as she reached the foot of the stairs and Rodney appeared, Dr Griffin's arm slung round his shoulders. Then Ronon, supporting Sergeant Franks. And finally Teyla, close beside John, but not touching him, the effort it was costing him to return to his city under his own steam showing plainly in his laboured steps and clenched jaw. The event horizon collapsed. No Major Jordan. No Sergeant Bell.

Elizabeth expected the weary travellers to begin moving away from the Gate toward the approaching med team; John's eyes would meet hers and she would see in them the hardships of the mission, before his shuttered expression descended, hiding his physical and mental pain. But they all turned away. They all turned to the Gate, to the great empty circle where the silvery ripple had gone, and in its place was the golden light of late afternoon, shining through the ancient stained glass to bathe the Gateroom in warmth and colour. The two remaining members of Jordan's team reached for each other and stood in the light, their heads together, their shoulders shaking. And John took two wavering steps through the ring, his right hand held out as if to grasp the brightness, then he sagged to his knees and slithered to the floor and was hidden from her view by Carson and his team.

oOo

Much later, Elizabeth approached the infirmary. Teyla came out.

"Teyla! I thought you'd be sleeping by now."

"I am very tired," Teyla said. "But I wanted to stay until everyone was settled." She smiled. "And I am finding it difficult to be far from Ronon; I was almost sure he was lost to us."

"It sounds like you had a rough time. You don't have to tell me now. Get some sleep."

"I will. Thank you. And Elizabeth, you might want to leave it until the morning. To visit, I mean. I said I wanted to wait until everyone was settled." She grimaced. "I gave up."

"Oh! Trouble?"

Teyla hesitated.

"You don't have to be diplomatic, Teyla; I can imagine! I'll just look in. Maybe I can sort things out."

"I wish you luck," said Teyla.

Elizabeth could hear Carson's raised voice as she entered the infirmary.

"You're not fine, Ronon! You're dehydrated, your arm is infected and your blood work shows all kinds of things I'm not happy about! Now get back into bed!"

An indecipherable rumble was followed by Rodney's strident tones. "Oh, will you please just give it a rest! I've got Sheppard snoring his head off on one side and you two yelling on the other! Concussed man, here! Have some consideration!"

A resonant snort and a confused "Huh?" were her Military Commander's contribution.

"Go back to sleep, Sheppard! And try not to snore!"

"Elizabeth!" Carson gave her a pleading look as he spotted her arrival.

"Carson," she smiled. "Ronon! I hear you've had an eventful mission?"

He shrugged.

"What's the problem here?"

"Been shut in enough. There's no windows here."

"Okay," she said slowly.

"It's dark anyway, Conan! Night-time, remember?"

"Thank you, Rodney," Elizabeth said, repressively. "Ronon, I'm sure Carson will let you get some fresh air as soon as it's light, as long as you follow his medical advice otherwise." She looked questioningly at Carson.

"Yes, yes, you can go out and greet the dawn if you must, just come back here afterwards!"

Ronon's tense posture sagged. "'Kay," he said and got back into bed.

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at Carson. _One down._

"Rodney!" She smiled, brightly. "How are you feeling?"

"Concussed," he said.

"Just a mild concussion, Rodney," Carson interrupted.

"Bruised," continued Rodney, glaring at the doctor. "Badly. In all kinds of places!"

"I won't ask," said Elizabeth. "Anyway, you can get some sleep now, can't you?"

"I suppose." Rodney wriggled down the bed and pulled his blankets up to his ears.

Elizabeth looked around. "Where are Dr Griffin and Captain Franks?"

"Oh, they're in one of the isolation rooms. They seemed to want to stay together, and I thought it might be more peaceful, knowing erm..."

"Knowing there'd be a certain amount of disruption," Elizabeth said wryly. "What's the damage?" she whispered, nodding toward John.

"A gunshot wound in his left triceps, infected, and injuries indicative of close combat. He's taken quite a nasty blow to the head and has badly bruised ribs."

She sighed. "He'll be begging for release in the morning, then."

"Not bloody likely!" said Carson. "Are you staying?"

"For a while. Just to make sure the peace holds!"

"I'll be around if you need anything." Carson retreated to his office.

Elizabeth carefully lifted a chair and set it down between John and Rodney. She sat and listened to the slow, steady breathing.

"Sorry."

"John?"

"'M sorry, Lisbeth. Didn't bring 'em all home."

"It wasn't your fault, John."

"No."

His eyes didn't open. She looked at the dressing on his forehead and the bruising.

"They need help," he mumbled, still without looking at her.

"The people living in that awful place? Buried underground." She shuddered. "Can we do anything for them?" 

Slivers of bleary hazel appeared. "Yeah. They just need a good leader," he said. "Strong woman, like you." A glimmer of a smirk appeared then faded and his features relaxed into sleep.

oOo

John reclined, warm and relaxed, the bright sun shining red through his closed eyes. He breathed deeply of the fresh ocean air and felt the breeze tickle his skin and playfully ruffle his hair.

"No, thank you, Rodney, really, that's enough!"

"Yes, but your skin must be extremely sensitive! Maybe just one more application!"

John opened one eye and squinted at his companions. "Put it away, Rodney. That sun's as blocked as it's gonna get!"

"Yes, but this is moisturising too! Cocoa butter!"

"Rodney. I'm moist. Thank you." Zanta smiled at him, lifted her borrowed shades slightly and flinched. "So bright! It hurts! Are you sure you don't need these, Colonel?"

"Nah, I don't intend on opening my eyes much til the food's cooked. How's it going, Chewie?"

The hiss of meat applied forcefully to a barbecue came from behind him, and the chef's voice, "Not done yet."

"Are you enjoying your new role, Zanta?" asked Teyla.

"Yes," she replied, firmly. "Very much. I'm making a difference, you know? And it's hard, getting the Clan Leaders to agree, co-ordinating trade and finding ways to help the ordinary people, but it's not so different from running a bar!"

"Fewer fights?" John asked.

"I wouldn't say that," she replied. "But nothing I can't handle!"

"You are making the Clan Leaders help the poor?" Teyla asked.

"Yes, and that's easier with access to better food, and more trade."

"And you're still the forgotten people!" Rodney said, pulling his hat down over his eyes.

"So long as we trade via Atlantis, we are. And we're very grateful for that!"

The occupants of the balcony were quiet for a while, the only sounds the sizzle of cooking meat, the surge of waves far below and just the tiniest hint of a hummed tune from Ronon as he tended the barbecue. John's thoughts turned to Jordan and Bell, the two that had been lost before ever he had set foot on that world of shadows and deceit. They were lost, he acknowledged with the weary regret of one who had had to acknowledge many losses over the years. They were lost, but like all the others, they would never be forgotten.

"It's done," said Ronon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed my story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Of course, reviews are always very welcome. This one took me quite a long time, so I'm thinking of tackling some of my shorter, lighter ideas next. Hope you're all okay!  
> Sally


End file.
